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yellowsuitcase · 4 years

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The Niffler // Draco Malfoy

A/N: I’m really happy with how this turned out! It took me a good three hours to write and I hope you enjoy it!

Summary: A niffler got loose in the Slytherin common room. Draco and Y/N get into an argument. Angst and fluff follow.

Warning(s): Swearing

Word Count: 2.5k

Draco grabbed Y/N’s hand as they made their way to the Great Hall to get some morning tea as well as sausages, eggs, and toast. His ring brushed up against her middle finger, the cold metal shocking to the touch. She turned her head to admire her boyfriend’s handsome side profile. He sensed her eyes on him. Draco smirked and, without warning, went in for a sweet kiss. Y/N let out a small surprised squeal but eagerly kissed him back. Draco began to deepen the kiss, Y/N pulled away.

“As much as I’d love to snog you all day long—” her stomach growled, “I’m starving. And you have terrible morning breath, love.”

Draco sputtered, his soft expression turning into a perplexed and shocked one. Y/N simply giggled and dragged him to breakfast.

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Y/N rushed into Greenhouse Three; she’d only just made it in time. As she took her spot at the table, she made a mental note to scold Draco later. Professor Sprout was going on about dittany, and Y/N was trying to pay attention, but a teary-eyed Pansy Parkinson was rather distracting.

“Pansy!” She whisper-yelled. “Pansy, what’s wrong?”

“Ms. Y/L/N, would you like to tell me the three uses of dittany?” Professor Sprout called out.

Y/N felt her face turn crimson. Luckily, her mother became a Herbologist after working at the Ministry in the Department of Magical Transportation.

“Dittany can be used in potion-making, healing magic, and a dittany stalk can be used as a wand core,” Y/N answered. Professor Sprout simply nodded, “Correct, 5 points to Slytherin.”

With Professor Sprout off her back, Y/N was able to speak to Pansy.

“My necklace is missing. It was a summer gift from my father,” Pansy said while wiping away a tear. Almost all her mascara had been washed away.

“A summer gift? Your father gave you a necklace just because it was sum—” Y/N stopped herself realigned her focus on the problem at hand. “Where did you last see it?”

“I put it on my nightstand last night, this morning it was gone. When I find out who stole it, I’ll hex them. I was thinking the horn tongue hex,” Pansy smirked, “That ought to teach them not to touch my possessions.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. She and Pansy weren’t really friends, but she still felt inclined to help her. Y/N knows that if her emerald choker, given to her by Draco as a birthday gift, had been stolen, she’d be just as upset as Pansy, albeit a bit less.

“Who would’ve stolen your necklace, Pansy?”

“I’ve got no clue, who would do that to me? I mean everyone loves me, I don’t understand!”

Y/N eyes widened as she stared at the empty plant pot in front of her. Surely Pansy wasn’t this thick, was she? If she genuinely believes everyone loves her, she’s got observation skills to develop.

Y/N inhaled through her nose and out through her mouth before asking, “What does it look like? I’ll keep an eye out for it.”

“It’s got three diamonds on each side, with a sapphire gem in the center.”

Y/N nodded and shifted her focus back to her Professor.

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Draco spotted his girl from across the hall. She was waiting in their usual meeting spot, the bench outside the Transfiguration classroom. Most of the time, Y/N would have her eyes closed and her head propped against the wall, trying to get in a few moments of shut-eye since she had likely stayed up a few hours longer than she should have the night before. But today, Y/N’s eyes were wide open and scanning every student who walked past her.

The blonde boy weaved his way through the crowd of students and walked up to her.

“What’s got you so tense, love?” he asked as he put his hands on her shoulders, gently massaging them.

Y/N let out a sigh. “Pansy has lost her necklace. She believes it's been stolen. I told her I’d look out for it, but it seems nobody’s wearing any jewelry today.”

Draco frowned. “Since when do you care about Parkinson’s problems? Didn’t she bully you in year 2?”

“Yes, I suppose she did. But it’s been years, we’re young women now, and women help women.”

Draco smiled at his girlfriend’s feistiness and placed a kiss on the crown of her head. “That reminds me, Bulstrode’s been interrogating everyone in Apparition class about the whereabouts of her bracelet.”

“Millicent? That couldn't have been fun.”

“It wasn’t.”

Just then, Blaise Zabini walked up to the pair, making an effort to avoid Y/N’s eyes, “Malfoy,” he said while looking around suspiciously, “Have you seen my pocket watch anywhere? It’s been stolen.”

Y/N and Draco shared a look. “Haven’t seen it no. How do you know it was stolen?” Draco asked as he removed his hands from Y/N’s shoulders.

“I don’t simply misplace things, Malfoy. Someone had to have stolen it while I was distracted.”

“Well, we haven’t seen it, but we’ll keep an eye out.” Y/N said with a smile the quickly diminished when she heard Blasie’s next words.

“No matter, I’m certain it must’ve been one of your mudblood friends.” He glared at Y/N as he spoke. Very clearly conveying his disapproval of Y/N’s mingling with muggle-born Hogwarts students.

Y/N visibly shrunk under his fierce gaze. “Watch it, Zabini," Draco spat. He was not enjoying the way Zabini was talking to his girl.

Zabini said nothing more. He turned on his heel and walked off.

Draco sighed. “Sorry about him, darling.”

Y/N scoffed. “Why are you apologizing? Just a year or two ago, you would��ve agreed with him. Hell, you probably would’ve called me blood traitor every day; you were an arse. I mean, honestly, I still marvel at the fact you were able to stop being a git. What did make you decide to stop bullying everyone who didn’t think purebloods were superior? Huh?”

Draco stood speechless. Y/N was practically fuming, her pupils had shrunk, and her ears were bright red. He looked at her, his hurt expression catching her off guard. She blinked quickly as she realized what she’d just said to him. Her feet stumbled backward, and she took off down the hallway, leaving Draco standing alone as the clock tower bell rang, signaling the beginning of class.

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Y/N felt like utter, for lack of a better word, shit. She couldn’t believe she had said all those nasty things to Draco. Thank Merlin it was the last class of the day; after Charms with Professor Flitwick, she’d be able to take a relaxing soak in the Prefect’s Bath. One of her close friends was a Head Girl and would tell Y/N the password to the bathroom if she ever asked.

Y/N heard mumbles behind her.

“I heard they got into an argument.”

“She really went in on him, he looked shocked, he did.”

“He deserved it that scum bag.”

Y/N turned in her chair, facing the people who were whispering, and twirled her wand between her fingers. Silently suggesting her capabilities. “Can I help you?” She asked while batting her eyelashes. The two Gryffindor students hastily shook their heads. Y/N nodded and turned back around, deciding to actually pay attention to Flitwick’s lecture on the Bubble Head Charm.

Soon enough, the bell rang, and Y/N dragged her feet, leaving the classroom. “Everything alright, Ms. Y/L/N?” Flitwick asked, concern lacing his voice.

“Yes, no need to worry, Professor. I’ll see you next week. I do hope you’ll allow us to practice the Bubble Head Charm in the lake.”

Professor Flitwick didn’t look entirely convinced, but he smiled and nodded nonetheless.

As she turned the corner, Y/N could sense something was wrong. She surveyed the crowd, searching for someone she knew. A flash of red caught her eye. Fred Weasley. She ran towards him, the crowd whispering as she weaved through them.

“Fred!” she called as she waved her hand. “Fred!”

He heard her call, “Ah Y/N, what’s up?”

Y/N breathed heavily, catching her breath before asking Fred, “Something’s wrong, what’s happened? Is Draco alright?”

“Take it, easy mate, he’s alright, he’s only lost his ring.”

Y/N felt her heart sink. Draco was quite fond of his Slytherin ring. He was likely not very happy to have lost it, especially after their altercation. She knew she needed to find her boyfriend.

“Thanks, Fred, got to go, see you!”

Fred chuckled as he watched her run off to the dungeons. “Good luck!” He called after her. But she was already out of earshot, adrenaline running through her veins. She was so focused on getting to the Slytherin common room, she hardly noticed she’d already run past it. Her feet skidded across the cold stone floor as she came to a halt. To her defense, it was easy to miss the entrance to the common room. It was a hidden passageway that only appeared when the password was said. Otherwise, it was a bare wall.

Y/N stood anxiously outside the entrance. “Serpent,” she muttered. The wall moved to reveal a staircase leading down into the common room. Upon her entry, all eyes fell to her.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Y/N,” said Pansy, “Would you like to return our stuff, prat?” Some people snickered at her comment.

“What do you mean? I haven’t stolen anything.”

“Of course, you haven’t. Draco, you agree with me, don’t you? It’s obvious she’s stolen my necklace, Millicent’s bracelet, Blaise’s pocket watch, and your ring. Is it not?”

Y/N’s eyes shifted to Draco. He was standing next to Blaise with his arms crossed, refusing to make eye contact with his girlfriend.

“I can’t be sure,” he uttered.

“Draco, you know I wouldn’t,” Y/N said in desperation. She knew she looked bad.

“Prove it,” he said while lifting his eyes to glare at her.

“Go on then, shake out your robes,” Pansy said. More laughter arose.

Y/N begrudgingly stripped her robe and held it in front of her. She pulled out the pockets, flipped it upside down. The only thing that fell out was two pieces of Fizzing Whizbees, a sherbet ball that made you float a few feet off the ground. It was her guilty pleasure.

Pansy’s smirk lessened. “Well, you could have hid—”

She was cut short as Professor Snape and Hagrid came bursting into the common room. Snape looked very irritated as he glanced at Hagrid, who took that as his cue to speak.

“I ‘ave reason ter believe a niffler ‘as gotten loose in ‘ere. I’ll need everyone ter help search fer the little guy.”

Pansy’s face turned red with embarrassment. It was apparent now who the culprit was. Nifflers were known for their excellent treasure locating skills. They’re always on the hunt for shiny objects, of which the Slytherin students had many.

Y/N felt relief flow through her. Her name was cleared, but now they had a new task, find the niffler, as well as the items it stole.

They searched for what felt like hours. Millicent had found her bracelet and Blaise his pocket watch. Pansy’s necklace and Draco’s ring were still missing. Y/N was currently searching through a wooden cupboard. As she was lifting the random items within it, she came across something shiny. Upon further investigation, she realized she’d found the ring. Excitement rushed through her as she yelled, “Found it!”

Only she wasn’t the only one to have yelled. Turning around, she saw Draco holding the little niffler by the scruff of its neck. It was squirming in his grip. Swiftly, he grabbed its foot and gave it a shake, out fell his ring, which he quickly caught and pocketed.

Anger flashed behind his eyes, “I’ll kill this filthy rat,” he said as he raised his wand. Just as he opened his mouth to curse the niffler, Y/N shouted, “Expelliarmus!”

Draco’s hawthorn wand was ripped from his hand and cast across the room. Most students took this as their cue to leave; they didn’t want to be caught in the middle of Draco’s rage. On her way out, Pansy snatched her necklace from Y/N’s hand.

Hagrid stumbled over to him and gently took the niffler from him. “Thank yeh, Y/N,” he said kindly. Y/N nodded, sad to see the little guy go. She was rather fond of nifflers. A fact Draco knew of. She gazed at him. He was seething as he thrust his ring back onto his finger.

“Go on then, yell at me, call me a git again. You said it yourself, I’m an arse.”

Her heart clenched. She really fucked up.

A few beats passed before she said, “Draco, I’m sorry. There’s no excuse for what I said to you. You didn’t deserve any of it. I was just angry at Zabini, and I took it out on you. He made me feel weak and stupid, and I was embarrassed. You only stood up for me. I had no place calling you a git and an arse. You’re not. You’re the complete opposite. You’re so much more than I deserve, and I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

A tear slid down her cheek. She knew his harsh words were coming. She closed her eyes tightly and bit her lip hard, bracing herself for it. But nothing came. Tentatively she opened her eyes. They were met with the sight of Draco’s chest. She tilted her head up, rubbing away her tears with her arm. Draco was looking down at her with an unreadable expression on his face.

A few moments passed, and Draco hadn’t said a word. Y/N thought it was over. This must be where he was going to end things between them. She began to cry again, burying her face in her hands.

“Oh sweetheart, come here, It’s alright, I forgive you.”

Draco’s arms wrapped around her. His hand came up behind her head and guided it to the crook of his neck. Y/N only sobbed harder. The weight of the embarrassment and stress endured that day finally crashing down on her.

He began to stroke her hair. “I’m here, love, you’re okay.”

He held her in his arms for a while until gradually, her sobs turned to sniffles. She gently pulled away from him and peeked up at him. He smiled softly and pressed a tender kiss to her forehead and then to her lips. “Let’s get you some water, and then it’s off to bed. We’ve had an exhausting day, haven’t we darling?”

Y/N let out a chuckle. “We have.”

Draco’s eye’s twinkled with playfulness. Suddenly, he reached behind Y/n and scooped her up into his arms, bridal style. They both giggled like young children as he began to walk them up to their dorms.

Y/N admired his side profile once again. “I love you, Draco,” she said quietly.

He looked down at her. “And I love you.” They shared another kiss. “Oh, and before you ask, yes, I’ll go apologize to Hagrid and the niffler tomorrow.”

Y/N smiled brightly. “You better,” she said with a stifled laugh. And off they went to get some well-deserved sleep.

#draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy imagine #draco fanfiction #draco malfoy x you #draco malfoy #niffler #fred weasley #pansy parkinson #blaise zabini #millicent bulstrode #snape #severus snape #hagrid #rubeus hagrid #flitwick #professor flitwick #professor sprout #magical creatures #slytherin

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seanbeansimp59 · 4 years

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Watchdog of the North (Part One)

Hey all! This is my first fic to post here, and I’m really excited to see what you think! Feel free to leave any comments or criticisms you’d like--I’m always happy to listen! I will be posting part two once I’m done writing it (which should be by next weekend at the very most) so stay tuned.

I’ve had this concept floating in my head for a while and I figured I’d write it down for once in my life. It’s the story of a shapeshifter who lives in the woods outside of Winterfell and protects the surrounding countryside. In all honesty, I have yet to watch Game of Thrones, so if some of my knowledge is incorrect, not only is it excusable, it is to be expected. Please go easy on me.

Winter in Northern Westeros was brutal, it always had been. The bitter cold settled deep into brittle bones and encased the lungs of any soul brave enough to step outdoors. Everything was coated in a brilliant white, blinding in the sunlight and gloom alike. Outside was unbearable, indoors wasn’t much better, but the forest? The forest was a death wish, save for one.

The Shifter.

Unlike the villagers, the Shifter lived in the forest. For years it wandered alone, estranged, more of a bedtime story than a living being. Children were told tales of a massive wolf that roamed between the trees, standing over two metres tall at the shoulder with huge yellow eyes and sharp white fangs. This wolf, according to legend, was not actually a wolf at all, rather a man who had been twisted by fate into a ravenous monster. “He still walks among the trees,” parents would warn their wide-eyed charges, waving their hands like wolf paws. “And if you wander off alone in the woods, he’ll snatch you up and scarf you down!” Of course, the story was an effective method of keeping children safely indoors, especially during the brutal winter months, so very few believed the tale of the Shifter in the forest. For years, it remained a legend and the people remained unworried, safe within the walls of Winterfell.

But the Shifter was real, very real indeed. And unbeknownst to the citizens of Winterfell, it did much more than devour children and slink unnoticed through the snowy drifts. It protected. When troubles came from the south, the Shifter slayed the attackers before they reached the village. When a pack of direwolves began to devour the livestock, the Shifter killed their alpha and drove the rest from the region. Time and time again, though the villagers knew it not, the Shifter continued to keep them safe from danger with neither thanks nor acknowledgment to keep it sated. It knew one thing and one thing alone—to protect.

Years passed. New leaders came and went, changing Winterfell for better and for worse. The Shifter never left, never stopped protecting. It stayed among the trees, always watching for any new danger yet never exposing itself, for even in its human form, it was intimidating. It stood at two metres tall with a wild mane of charcoal black hair, its skin viciously scarred from the battles it fought for Winterfell. Memory of the Shifter had all but vanished, and for the moment, it intended to keep things that way. Yes, it would protect, but it would do so from the shadows. That was how it had always been. At the moment, the land resided under the care of the very capable Lord Eddard Stark. He and his wife, Catelyn, had four children whom the citizens loved very dearly—Robb, Sansa, Arya, and Bran, with Catelyn heavily pregnant with a fifth child. Life went on rather the same in Winterfell, full of its comings and goings, sparing no thought for the being lurking in the woods.

One particularly sunny afternoon, the children of the Lord of Winterfell decided to take an outing to the clearing near the village. It wasn’t far from the outskirts of Winterfell, and although the children were all rather young, they were extremely capable of surviving in the cold, as their father had taught them such skills at a young age. Once they’d said goodbye to their father and hugged their smiling mother, they scampered off, bundled up in furs and cloaks, giggling and chattering as the cold air nipped at their reddened noses and cheeks. Into the woods they raced, scooping up handfuls of the freshly fallen powder and making little spheres to sling at each other. Robb, a rambunctious lad of eleven, began pelting his younger siblings with snowballs, causing them to stumble and stagger about, spitting snowflakes to the ground and flailing blindly in irritation. The littlest ones, Bran and Arya who were four and five respectively, decided to join forces with Sansa, their older sister, and collectively they launched an attack that left Robb completely overpowered. His mood soured rapidly as he found himself being mercilessly barraged with snowballs, and he began to lash back in annoyance. Aiming blindly, he flung a snowball directly into Arya’s face, stinging her eyes viciously and making her fall on her backside into a rather large snow drift. Quite suddenly she burst into tears, swiping furiously at her face to get the snow away.

“Oh Arya, come off it,” Robb scoffed lightly. “It’s just a bit of snow, it’ll melt in a moment.”

“That hurt, Robb,” she cried in reply, rubbing her eyes miserably.

Sansa, ever the negotiator, put her hands on her hips and turned to him. “Robb, you ought to apologize. That was awfully mean of you.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong!” he protested. “I’m not going to apologize for Arya being a big baby!”

There was silence for a second. Then Arya’s lower lip quivered, and she turned swiftly on her heel, storming from the clearing in a huff.

“Arya-” Sansa began, but Robb held his hand up.

“Don’t follow her. She’ll be over it in a minute or two.”

Sansa nodded. After all, Robb was probably right. Arya’s little outbursts didn’t typically last more than a half hour, so she’d be back in a few minutes and they could go back to playing. With that, she began to help her brothers build a snowman, almost completely forgetting about Arya’s anger.

As they resumed their play, a very disgruntled Arya marched through the woods, not going to any particular place or in any particular direction. Rage throbbed in her ears and made her head hurt and she found herself muttering aloud to the silent snow. “Why has Robb got to be so horrible? That really did hurt, and he had no right to bash me in the face like that! It was only a silly game. I hate him.”

The longer she walked, the angrier she became, and the angrier she became, the less she paid attention to where she was going. Lost in her own head, she crashed deeper and deeper into the forest, stomping furiously through the trees, smacking their branches in irritation. After a while, she heaved a deep breath and finally looked up to find herself in a very unfamiliar clearing. Leafless trees stretched menacingly into the sky, their spindly branches scraping in the breeze. All around her, the snow stretched into the distance, the now-setting sun making it glitter and shift with the dying rays. She had no idea how long it had been, but it was getting darker by the minute and she realized just how cold she’d become. A bitter wind began to whip through the trees, biting her cheeks and piercing through her clothes. Shivering, she pulled the furry cloak closer around her and turned back in the direction she’d come. Her angry path through the snow left a clear trail to follow back to the clearing, so with any luck, she’d be back very soon.

Luck, as it seemed, was not on her side.

The trail wound back and forth through the towering trees, seemingly erratic and mindless. Time wore on and Arya found herself becoming desperate and increasingly irritated with herself. The wandering trail was taking too long—the sun was already kissing the edge of the horizon and there was still no sign of the familiar buildings of Winterfell. Even though she was very young, she knew that once the sun went past the horizon, her chances of making it through the bitter winter night were very, very low. She began move faster, hurrying as best she could along the trampled snow. Tears pricked her eyes and she swiped them away in anger, stumbling through the bone-white drifts. Much to her dismay, the increased effort did nothing but exhaust her, and she could only watch in terror as the wind slowly ate away at her previous footsteps. Behind her, the sun dipped lower still and shadows fell long across the land. All alone in the woods, surrounded by nothing but cold unfeeling snow, Arya Stark began to sob.

Back in Winterfell, the village was in an uproar. Eddard and Catelyn had watched three of their four children come racing back into the village square, Sansa and Bran sobbing uncontrollably while Robb’s face was as white as the snow in his hair. In a tiny, halting voice, he explained that Arya had run off into the woods and she hadn’t come back. His body shook like a leaf in a gale, and he couldn’t meet his father’s horrified gaze. Robb knew it was his own fault, that if he had just apologized to Arya none of this would have happened, and he was deeply ashamed.

“We tried to find her,” Sansa wailed, running into Catelyn’s arms. “We tried, Mummy, honest we did!”

“I believe you, dear,” Catelyn murmured, stroking Sansa’s hair. “I believe you. It’s going to be alright.”

Ned was already rushing past the little throng, heading to the stable as quickly as his legs would carry him. He called for the guards in a rough voice, moving to where his horse was tied. He vaguely heard Jory, the captain of his guard, reassuring him, though the words were far away and blurry. Ned’s foot was in the stirrup, his hand gripping the reigns as he swung onto the horse’s back. One thought pushed to the front of everything, one brutally awful reminder that stilled the very blood in his veins. We have to find her before the sun sets, or else….

His mind wouldn’t let him finish.

He dug his heels into the horse’s side, thundering out into the village alongside his guard, sword gleaming at his side, torch burning brightly in the dying light of the sun. His face was grim, his jaw set like stone. “Hold on, little one,” he growled. “I’m coming.”

The sun set like it did every day, unaware of the chaos left in its wake. The moon took its place, though it were nothing more than a silver sliver hanging amidst the sparkling stars. Beneath the pale light, something moved, something massive. The Shifter was awake, prowling about in the powdery snow as it had done every night for the past eighty years. Nothing much moved in the woods these days, it thought to itself as it padded along between the trees. Everything was peaceful and still, save for the occasional travelling wolf pack, and danger hadn’t reared its ugly head for almost five years. Yes, the Shifter mused, nothing much had happened. Everything was good. Everything was quiet.

No sooner had the thought crossed the Shifter’s mind than a sharp shriek split the frigid air like a knife.

The Shifter’s head snapped up, its yellow eyes scanning the snow before it. What was that? it wondered. It was so out of place in the serenity of the snow that for a moment, the Shifter thought it was simply hearing things. Then, again, that same cry rose into the sky, this time more intense and terrified. It sounded like a child. Without another thought, the Shifter broke into a sprint through the trees toward where the shriek had originated.

It wasn’t long before the Shifter found the source of the voice, and when it did, its blood ran cold at the sight. A little girl, no older than five or six years old, was cornered against a huge boulder by a pack of snarling wolves. Her grey eyes were wide with fright, tear tracks running down her reddened cheeks. The largest wolf took a step towards her, saliva dripping from its sharp fangs as it sized up the little girl. She whimpered in fear and cowered away, shielding herself from its gaze.

The Shifter had seen enough.

In a single bound, it threw itself between the wolf and the little girl, spreading its massive paws wide as it faced the leader of the pack. For a moment, nothing happened. The wolf seemed a bit nervous, having never seen something so huge, but the girl whimpered again, and its mind was made up. It gave a sharp snarling bark and lunged at the Shifter, red jaws gaping.

The Shifter met it halfway.

With a visceral tearing sound, the Shifter’s fangs ripped into the wolf’s throat. Red splashed hot against the cold snow and the wolf lay still. Silence covered the clearing for just a second as the wolves hesitated, but the lull was broken as another charged. The Shifter whirled and snapped at the neck. It missed but recovered quickly, grappling with another assailant that attacked its turned back. Another wolf leapt. And another. The Shifter’s teeth ripped into flesh and fur and bone. Howls and yips turned the sky into a symphony. Pain bloomed through the Shifter as fangs sank first into its shoulder, then its belly. Fiery agony pulsed in its veins. It bit down hard and heard a squeal. A wolf fell motionless to the snow and didn’t move again. Scarlet touched the ivory, salty iron tingled in the crisp air. The Shifter’s eyes were blazing, its jaws clamping on exposed fur, and another wolf didn’t stand. Where once were five, only two now stood, tails tucked and ears flat. The Shifter staggered, swayed a bit, but braced itself once more, baring bloodstained teeth at the survivors. Without hesitation, they turned and ran, disappearing into the trees.

The Shifter heaved a broken sigh, its body aching as blood dripped from its wounds onto the snow. Amidst the pain it remembered the frightened girl and turned to where she lay, shivering and shaking. Her eyes were closed, her breathing shallow, her lips and nose already a shade of blue. The Shifter had seen many lives lost to the brutal cold, and the little girl was already nearing the point of no return. She needed to be warmed, and fast.

Wincing in pain, the Shifter dropped to the ground next to the girl, curling its massive, furry body around her like a living blanket. It pressed its muzzle against her brown hair, breathing gusts of hot air against the trembling form. Within its warmth, the child stirred, and the Shifter sighed in relief. She would be fine, given enough time. However, she would need better care than the Shifter’s rudimentary medicines could provide, and the Shifter knew that she must be returned to Winterfell as soon as possible. At least, assuming she was from Winterfell. Moving a bit, the Shifter scanned her little body, trying to find any indication of where this girl resided. A flash of bronze around her neck caught its eye, and it used its muzzle to coax the little chain from within the folds of her cloak.

The Shifter’s heart skipped a beat—proudly engraved on the pendant’s face was the Stark Crest.

Suddenly anxious, the Shifter’s eyes focused on the little girl. Could she be one of Lord Stark’s children? Was it possible? If his child were missing, Winterfell would be in chaos and gods only knew what frightened villagers would do in such times. A father who had lost his child was more dangerous than any beast, and a father in a position of power whose child had gone missing? The Shifter swallowed thickly. This was much more urgent than it had anticipated. It knew it needed to get the girl back to Winterfell as quickly as possible, likely before the sun rose.

Staggering to its feet, the Shifter looked down at the trembling girl. It could hardly carry her into the village in its jaws in the form of a massive wolf, not with the entire village on edge as it was. No, this journey would require something different, something just a bit less frightening. For the first time in months, the Shifter would have to shift, assuming a human form to deliver this girl to her anxious family. However, it couldn’t keep her warm as a human, not without some form of fur or clothing. Shifting to such a body left it naked, and skin wasn’t near as insulating as fur. The Shifter had clothes, true enough, as well as some pelts and furs, but it would have to take the girl back to its den to retrieve them. Would she make it that far? For that matter, would the Shifter make it that far? Its wounds certainly weren’t minor, and it was bleeding rather badly—could it carry the little girl all the way its den and then through the streets of Winterfell? It honestly wasn’t certain.

But as it debated, the little girl stirred, whimpering a bit as she curled closer in on herself. “Daddy…” The sleepy whisper left her mouth, dreamlike and frightened in her half-conscious state. The Shifter’s heart ached, feeling a rush of warmth and determination flood its tired body. It had protected her this far, it wasn’t about to leave her here to freeze. Stooping down to her stiffly, it opened its jaws and took her clothes between its teeth, lifting her like a mother wolf would lift her pup. Then, letting out a lightly pained growl, it turned and began to plod through the woods, the girl swaying slightly beneath its head as it walked deeper into the forest. The Shifter would protect, as it had always done, no matter the cost.

Back in Winterfell, the house in the center of the village was as silent as a graveyard. Catelyn sat with her children in the great hall, pacing anxiously back and forth in front of the blazing hearth. Robb was gazing blankly at the wall, his mind wandering aimlessly from worst case scenario to worst case scenario. Sansa sat on the floor, holding a trembling Bran in her lap, playing with his curls as he whimpered softly. Night had fallen long ago, and Ned had not yet returned. The cold was seeping through the floorboards as it always did, and with each passing minute the dread sank deeper into their bones.

It’s too cold. The thought gnawed at Catelyn’s mind like frostbite. Worry ate away at her soul, nibbling at her heart and making its home among her insides where it lay, writhing and twisting wickedly. It's too cold for her to be…. She shook her head viciously. No. Such thinking was pointless and only served to further distress her. It would do no good to have such doomsday thoughts, not with her children already being consumed by the same anxiety that plagued her every breath. She was their mother, and as their mother she was to be a stronghold. Not torn asunder by the realization of just how cold it was and just how small Arya was and just how dreadfully unlikely it was that Arya was still…. Alive.

Just then, heavy footsteps sounded through the echoing halls. Catelyn’s head snapped up to see a familiar form moving into the room, shrugging away the snow-speckled furs as he walked. She tried to push aside the realization that his shoulders were slumped in defeat and that each step seemed to drain him more than words could convey, but it was painfully evident. His eyes, so grey and bleary, met hers for just a moment before darting back to the floor. Her Ned had returned empty-handed, and Catelyn felt herself sway.

“Cat….” His voice faltered and he trailed off into silence.

“Daddy,” Bran whispered. “Where’s Arya?”

Catelyn saw his body shake, watched the labored breaths leave his heaving chest. He wet his lips to speak, but no sound left his mouth. The room stayed still as death.

“Children, you need to go to bed,” Catelyn found herself saying, though her voice was far away and foggy. “It is late, and we are all very tired.” Moving slowly, she helped Sansa and Bran to their feet, ruffling their hair. “Go on, dears. We’ll see you in the morning.”

The children, knowing better than to argue with their mother, gathered themselves as best they could and made their way to their rooms. All of them felt a growing sense of gloom and anxiety, but none of them could bring themselves to say so. For now, they could only wait.

Once the children had left, Catelyn turned to Ned, who had fallen into the armchair, his head in his hands as he gazed blankly into the fireplace. “We searched everywhere, Cat,” he mumbled. “We lost her trail on the other side of the old riverbed.” His voice broke and his shoulders began to shake as silent sobs racked his body.

Catelyn moved to his side, placing a slender hand on his arm, kneeling by him, and resting her head against him. She was dreaming, she knew it. She would wake up in a moment, wrapped in his arms and see little Arya running wildly through the great halls, brown hair flying and grey eyes sparkling with laughter. It was all some dreadful nightmare, she told herself. Just a horrible nightmare. But deep down, she knew it was no dream, that somewhere in the woods her little girl was freezing and alone, lips turning blue, fingers turning black, body going still, and heart beating slower and slower until….

A choked sob left her lips despite her best efforts. She tasted blood where she’d bitten her cheek to keep it in, but now the tears were flowing, and she couldn’t stop their onslaught. Ned’s form shifted as he rose to his feet and his arms slowly came up to wrap around her, warm and strong and familiar, only this time he could offer little in lieu of comfort. They stood before the fire, clinging to each other for dear life.

“I tried, Cat,” Ned wept. “I swear I tried.”

“I know,” came her reply, muffled by his shoulder. “I know.”

But trying wasn’t enough and they both knew as much. Ned had tried his best, yet Arya was still lost in the cold. Nothing they could do would save her now; all they could do was wait. And wait they did, wrapped in each other by the roaring fire, praying silently to whatever would listen, a plea from their bleeding hearts rising to the skies like the smoke from the hearth—please bring her home.

The forest was still and silent, snow sparkling cruelly in the soft light of the moon. Crunch, crunch, crunch, broke the trance-like hush as a form made its way slowly through the trees, limping lightly with each step. The Shifter walked upright for once, though it was unused to being on two legs rather than four. Primitive bandages were wrapped around its torso underneath a simple tunic, its breeches were ill-fitting and loose, and its feet were clad in a pair of boots that had been stolen long ago. Despite this, it was kept quite toasty by the layers of furs wrapped around its body, and the little figured clutched against its chest shared in that warmth. Her breathing was even and her body no longer frigid. Rather than passed out with exhaustion, she now was fast asleep in the Shifter’s arms, mumbling slightly as she squirmed. Even though every step brought a fresh wave of pain over the Shifter’s tired form, it knew that this little girl was worth it. The Shifter was first and foremost a protector, and this girl was no different.

In front of the Shifter, the wooden walls of the buildings of Winterfell rose into the sky. The streets were dark and quiet. Not a single soul seemed to be awake, and for once, the Shifter was thankful. Moving through a sleeping village would be much easier than navigating one that was awake and vigilant. Perhaps it could simply drop the little girl off on the doorstep of the great hall and leave before anyone saw it.

The Shifter took a deep breath and began to move through the darkened streets, taking care to step lightly on the firmly packed snow. It was almost too quiet, almost too sleepy. A child of the Lord of Winterfell was missing, and the people slept like logs? The Shifter was starting to feel anxious, unsettled in spite of itself. It was nearing morning, and it needed to hurry, but every step placed it deeper in the heart of the place it had avoided for nearly a century. Closer and closer it moved to the center of the village, seeing the rafters of the great hall peering between the rooftops. Nearly there, it reassured itself. Just a little further and she’ll be safe. It was dimly aware of the pain throbbing in its body and the little scarlet drops that followed its path, but it had come too far to turn back now. The girl was worth every step.

Finally, it came to a halt outside the gate that led to the house of Lord Stark. Timidly, though such a word seemed unfitting for such a massive being, the Shifter stepped into the yard, glancing around to scan for danger. To its surprise, there were no guards at the outposts, no soldiers patrolling the walls. Everything was deathly quiet. Everything was deathly still.

Crunch… crunch… crunch…. The Shifter cursed its heavy feet. The door was still a good hundred meters away, and the Shifter felt its heartbeat speeding up. Body aching, it took another step, and another, inching across the snowy yard to the doorstep where it could leave the girl. Just a little more, it thought, more a prayer than anything. Just a little—

The doors burst open with a bang. Standing in the doorway, eyes blazing in the cold, stood Lord Eddard Stark, his sword drawn and gleaming. “Guards!” he roared, striding quickly towards the Shifter. “At the ready!”

All around the Shifter, men rushed to their posts. Arrows were fitted to bowstrings and swords were drawn with a singing of steel. In less than a minute, the Shifter was cornered in the middle of the yard, staring down a furious Ned, whose blade was fixed at its neck with an alarming ferocity.

“Who are you?” The words were less of a question and more of a command. His voice was hoarse and grating, worn away by hours of tears. Frozen in fear, the Shifter stayed silent, gripping the little girl tightly beneath the furs.

“Who are you?” he barked, more forcefully now. The sword trembled in his grip, pressing into the Shifter’s throat and drawing a drop of crimson from the pale flesh. “What are you doing here?”

Behind him, Lady Catelyn rushed down the steps, hair flying as she rushed towards him. “Ned,” she cried. “What is going on?”

“Stop,” he commanded, turning his head ever so slightly to face her. “Stay where you are.”

She obeyed him instantly, hearing the seriousness in his voice and taking in the scene before her. Confusion and fear made her head spin, and she found herself shaking.

Ned turned back to the Shifter, his voice trembling with rage. “I will ask you once more. Who are you?”

The Shifter didn’t reply directly, only met his gaze with soft yellow eyes. Wincing in pain, it slowly knelt, feeling the point of Ned’s blade digging deeper into its neck. Ned was frozen, watching as this fur-clad figure got to its knees in the snow before him. The bowstrings creaked as the archers aimed, but Ned held his hand aloft and the guard lowered their bows. Slowly, ever so slowly, the Shifter bent to the ground with a hiss of pain, opening its arms and letting something slide to the snow. Swaddled tightly in furs and scraps of cloth, the bundle wriggled a bit and made a soft noise. The Shifter didn’t move, keeping its eyes on Ned as he watched the form in curious dread.

“Daddy?” The tiniest whimper rose from the shape.

For just a moment, no one moved.

“Arya?” Ned’s voice wobbled.

A hand emerged from the furs and Arya’s brown hair peeked through the pelts. Sleepily, she rubbed her eyes and muttered, “Oh there you are, Daddy. I was having the strangest dream.”

Ned let out a cry and dove to the snow, grabbing his daughter in his arms and drawing her to his chest, kissing her hair and her face and weeping in relief. “Arya, oh my Arya,” he sobbed between kisses. “You’re safe now, darling. Daddy’s got you.”

Catelyn was at his side in an instant, dropping to the snow next to him and wrapping her arms around the both of them. Tears ran silver down her cheeks, and she gathered Arya to her once Ned let go, kissing the top of her head and stroking her tangled hair. “Arya,” she murmured over and over between her sobs. “Arya, you’re safe!”

Behind them, the children burst from between the doors, running pell-mell down the stairs to where their parents cradled Arya between them.

“Arya!” Bran whooped, crashing into his father as he raced through the snow. “Sansa, it’s Arya!”

Sansa was there in another second, laughing as she grabbed Arya in a hug. “Oh Arya, don’t run off like that again!” she chided, pinching her cheek lightly.

Robb trailed behind a bit, standing sheepishly next to Ned as though waiting for permission to touch the sister he’d accidentally endangered. Catelyn noticed him shifting from foot to foot and stood, taking his hand, and leading him to Arya who sat between Bran and Sansa. Unable to look at Arya, Robb simply stared at the ground, muttering something about being happy to see her and thankful she was okay.

Arya stood up on shaky legs and moved until she stood in front of him. “Robb,” she said in a very no-nonsense voice, making him look up in surprise. “It’s alright. I forgive you for hitting me in the face with a snowball. Don’t be angry with yourself, it wasn’t your fault.” And with those words, she patted him softly on the hand and turned back to her father.

“Robb, what do you have to say to her?” Catelyn questioned lightly.

There was a moment of silence before Robb burst into tears. “I’m so sorry, Arya,” he cried. “Thank you so much for coming back alive!”

Ned roared in laughter and gathered the two of them in his arms, tousling their hair and grinning from ear to ear. “Ah, if only grown adults could forgive as easily as the two of you, I’d have a lot less work to do.” He let go of them and kissed Arya on the forehead again. “We’d better get you inside, little one.”

“Ned.” Catelyn’s voice was low and sharp.

“What is it?” he asked, turning to face her, instantly recognizing why she’d gotten his attention.

The Shifter hadn’t moved from where it lay slumped in the snow. Its breathing was rapid and shallow, its closed eyelids trembling slightly. Underneath its form, a pool of red was blooming slowly across the stark white, and the acrid tang stung the cold air.

Arya was the first to move, breaking away from her father’s arms and rushing to the Shifter’s side. “Arya,” Ned barked, but she ignored him, dropping to her knees next to the huge form. Her hand reached out, small and white against the blackness of the furs ‘round its body and began to pet the matted black locks on its head. The Shifter started, opening its yellow eyes to see the grey eyes of the little girl looking intently at its wounded body.

“You’re the wolf,” she stated. There was no question, no uncertainty, just a gentle accusation.

The Shifter nodded slowly, wincing in pain.

“You saved my life.”

Again, not a question, so again, the Shifter nodded.

“Now you’re the one who’s hurt.” Arya ran a hand over the Shifter’s forehead, and it chuckled lightly, a sound like thunder boiling in a black storm cloud. “We must help you.”

That caused the Shifter to stop. Help? No one had ever helped the Shifter before, only run in fear from its presence. Breathing deeply, it gathered a voice that had gone unused for almost fifty years and spoke in a rasping growl that made the hairs on Ned’s neck stand straight up.

“There is no need, little one.” It’s voice was deep and rumbling like an earthquake, yet gentle when it spoke to Arya. There was no malice, no anger, only a sort of tender adoration.

Arya’s voice replied, high-pitched and sharp against the mellow nature of the Shifter’s voice. “There is too need,” she retorted. “You’re bleeding out in the middle of the courtyard.”

The Shifter laughed again and made as if to sit up, before letting out a short gasp and falling back. Arya put her little hand on the Shifter’s shoulder and held it down as best she could. “See?” The tone was very reproachful, and she stroked the Shifter’s hair as she continued. “You’re in no position to be going anywhere. That means we have to heal you, right Daddy?”

Ned Stark stood behind her, completely torn. On the one hand, Arya seemed to believe that this massive creature of a man had saved her life and it had, after all, brought Arya to Ned safe and sound. On the other hand, this man was larger than any man Ned had ever seen, standing two meters tall with the muscle structure of a bear. Should it decide to turn on them for any reason at all, Ned was uncertain of how much good he could do. In addition, the beast hadn’t introduced itself and they knew nothing about it save for the fact that it’d stumbled wounded into Winterfell with Arya in its arms. It was a tricky situation and Ned wasn’t entirely certain what to do.

“Well, Arya….” He trailed off, much to his disappointment. He couldn’t find the words to say what he wanted to say, and it seemed wrong to say I have no idea who this is so I’m not comfortable with it, or him, staying in my house, but it was what he would say if it weren’t for politeness’ sake. Instead Ned was staring down this man, this thing, that seemed more animal than human, knowing it, or he, had saved his daughter and was bleeding out in the snow, but Ned felt so uncertain of whether or not it was safe.

Catelyn saw her husband’s internal battle and shook her head, stepping past him to kneel next to Arya. “How badly are you hurt?” she asked the Shifter, extending her hand to sit next to Arya’s upon its mane of snake-like hair. “May I see?”

The Shifter hesitated, then nodded slowly, still anxious as whether or not to trust them. Catelyn’s hands moved slowly to the furs covering its massive body and peeled them back, making a wet sound when they separated. The Shifter growled in its throat, head falling back against the snow, chest heaving violently. Its eyes sparkled wildly with pain, fingernails digging into the calloused flesh on its palms and leaving little crescent moons of blood. Layer by layer, Catelyn’s skilled hands removed its wrappings until at last, the Shifter lay exposed before them, panting, eyes glazed and lips parted, feeling pained, afraid, and vulnerable. Moving to the bottom of the garment, Catelyn gently pulled it up to see the damage that had been done—puncture marks dotted the pale skin, oozing viscous red blood onto the snow. There was a moment of silence as Catelyn took in the scene before her. The blood, the wound, and perhaps most confusing of all, the fact that the body on the ground was undeniably…female.

“The wolves got her, Mummy,” Arya explained. “There were five of them and they were huge, but she jumped in front of them and killed all but two.”

“She?” Ned’s voice was full of shock.

“Yes,” Catelyn replied evenly. “She.”

Ned looked back and forth between his wife, his little girl, and the massive thing, or rather woman strewn on the snow before them, the blood spreading quickly. For a second, he said nothing, then “Can you stand?”

It, she, seemed uncertain. Her eyes were still full of fear, like an animal caught in a trap, but she shrugged her good shoulder and made a move to get up. A sharp hiss left her mouth, but she gritted her teeth and continued to rise as best she could with a body so broken.

“Ned, help her,” Catelyn said, and Ned moved swiftly to the Shifter’s side, wrapping her good arm over his shoulder. “Now, let’s get her inside.”

Slowly they made their way across the yard, up the steps, and through the doors. Arya stayed fixed at her mother’s side and the other children trailed a few steps behind, whispering to each other fervently. Despite the pain and exhaustion evident on the Shifter’s face, they finally made it to one of the guest rooms in the great hall and Ned guided her slowly to the bed.

She hesitated. “I’ll ruin it.”

“I care not,” Ned replied. “Please, lie down. I’ll have my healers tend to your wounds.”

Unwilling to disobey the Lord of Winterfell, she nodded and lied down, making a little pained noise in the back of her throat as she came to rest among the blankets. No sooner had her head hit the pillows than a huge wave of unconsciousness washed over her and bore her into a deep, dreamless sleep. Ned stepped back, watching as her form went limp almost instantly.

“Will she be okay, Daddy?” Arya asked from behind him.

“Yes, little one, I believe she’ll be just fine.” He pulled Arya to his side and ran a hand through her hair. “In fact, I think you could use some similar treatment. Why don’t we get you to bed?”

Too tired to argue the fact that she was not tired in the slightest, a common argument despite the level of exhaustion, Arya simply nodded and leaned her head against Ned’s hip. He chuckled and stooped to pick her up, sighing deeply as she wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her head in the crook of his shoulder.

“Daddy?” her little voice whispered next to his ear.

“Yes, little one?”

“I love you.”

Tears filled his eyes, and he took a deep breath. “I love you too, Arya.”

With that, he turned and walked from the room, leaving the Shifter to the skilled hands of his healers. He knew she would be safe given enough time, and unbeknownst to his family, he planned on keeping her in their home until she healed completely. He had no idea who she was or where she came from, but she had saved his Arya and that was enough for him. He had his Arya back, and that was enough. Stroking her hair, he made his way slowly to her bedroom where he gently deposited her on the cushions and furs. She give a little sigh of contentment and curled up almost instantly, snuggling deeper into her bed with a smile. “Good night, little one,” he murmured as he backed from the room. “Thank the gods you’re safe.”

And the Lord of Winterfell shut the door, pressed his back to the wall, and began to weep once more.

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bluepenguinstories · 3 years

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Remoras Full Chapter XVIII: Ray of Light

There I sat in the same hospital bed that I had been in for the past few weeks. There wasn’t much to the room I was in; the counter by the wall had sparse medical equipment lying around. In the middle of it was a sink, with a soap dispenser overhead. Truth be told, I could have left a week ago, and the dreary gray ambiance of the room left a lot to be desired. Last week, Shirley came to check in on me, just like she had done each day prior.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” I greeted her as she opened the door to the hospital room.

She was not amused, and I never expected her to be. That same tired expression, those bags under her eyes, that glare like “why are you still here?” It’s funny to note how I’ve heard her interactions with other patients, and how soft and patient she sounds. Of course, that was her job, and seeing others in such poor health could take a toll on her. ‘Emotional labor’ they called it. Of course, such a thing also happens in any other job, but especially in such positions where one had to care for another. Compassion burnout could have been another word for it. No matter how much she put on a smile, and no matter how much she meant it, no doubt it got to her, just as it would any other.

“I’m discharging you. You should go home, see your wife, tell her the good news,” she informed me without any hint of glee or celebratory cheer.

I recall how I turned my head toward the window, where the snowy barren landscape lay. Yes, the hospital was not my home, yet I treated it like a retreat from home all the same. It was an oddity to think of how much I had grown to love the atmosphere of the hospital. Whether that be a certain feeling the hospital food brought me with its lack of imagination, or the fact that it was so short staff, and yet what little staff there was did their damnedest to improve the lives that entered.

“What about my physical therapy?” I asked and hoped she would take the bait.

“You’ve been receiving that as part of your care. Have you not gotten used to your prosthetic?” She saw right through me. Of course she did, she’s probably dealt with others like me in the past.

Truth be told, I didn’t think I would ever get used to it. Yes, in time it would give me no trouble, and maybe I would just accept it as part of my life, but it wasn’t the physical aspect of it I wouldn’t get used to: it was that it served as a reminder that all of my antics had caught up to me. I slipped up, I underestimated someone I knew better than to have and I paid the price for it. No, the worst thing about it was that I could have avoided the issue altogether, but I just stopped caring about my own life.

“Tell me, doc, is it possible to have phantom limb when I technically have a limb?” I held up my arm (a rather brilliant thing in its own right. One would be hard pressed to tell it was a prosthetic and not the real thing. If not for all the fancy wires on the inside, I would have believed it myself) as I spoke those words, the question rather irrelevant. It was just my usual tactic: talking to fill space.

“Yes, I have heard such cases. Your turn, Ray: why are you so insistent on staying here longer?”

“I don’t really know,” I closed my eyes. My words sounded so sprained, despite there being no pain attached to them. There wasn’t so much of the sly smile like I had sported for so long. If I had an answer, it was buried somewhere else in a folder I refused to open.

Exhausted, she let out a sigh of defeat. It wasn’t ideal for her, and doubtful I benefited much from it.

“I’ll give you another week here. But you can’t just stay in bed doing nothing and have all your meals in bed. I’ll give you physical exercises and watch to make sure you’re doing them. Flex and grip exercise, things like that.”

“Have I really been in bed this whole time?” I asked her, rather coy, and this time the familiar smile returned to me. Glad to see it hadn’t left completely.

“Pacing about the room is not what I consider walking around. Come on, what have you been doing this whole time, anyway?”

“Mostly reflecting. It’s been a good opportunity to think some things over,” I replied in earnest.

“And? Has it helped?”

I shook my head and smiled.

Her blank expression shifted to a near frown.

“That’s a shame.” “Isn’t it?” I more mouthed than spoke. If she heard me, it didn’t show. She motioned toward the door and before she turned to me and said:

“By the way, if you’re going to complain about the hospital food being bland, either go home already or make your food yourself. I know you’re capable.”

Throughout the following days, she had kept her word, as did I.

My strolls through the halls netted me some treasures I wouldn’t have found otherwise. One patient lent me a book to read, one of the head nurses gave me some blank sheets of paper and a pen, and I did as Shirley suggested and helped out in the kitchen.

With the book, it was in Danish, which despite how useful it would be to learn given the region (also given the region, I could have tried learning some of the Inuit languages at one point in time or another), I never did. But I still tried to read through it and parse through what few words I could discern.

One thing I could have done with the pen and paper was try to write a letter to Sunny, as she was always sentimental about those things. I could have also jotted down the steps to the strategy Remora and I had talked over, that could have helped. Rather than either of those things, I tried to practice drawing. Simple things, like birds and foxes, but the way I saw it, the things I did with the pen didn’t matter so much as the fact that I was testing out my new hand.

Nothing about it struck me as odd until I helped out in the kitchen. Somewhere that should have been my habitat and yet I felt myself in a foreign environment. I tried to hold a large pot full of boiling water and I felt my new hand shake as I lifted it up to transfer to a different burner. It was as if I was just as well off trying to lift it one-handed. My theory for the whole thing was that my body wasn’t yet consistent with registering that I had two hands again.

Even with the physical routines and little tasks I gave myself, there were still gaps of time scattered throughout which plagued me. I would ponder aloud such things like, “I miss everyone, don’t I? So why doesn’t it feel like I do? For that matter, what am I avoiding?”

No answer came. It didn’t need to. I was sure I knew, somewhere anyway.

When the week passed, Shirley, or as I ought to call her, Dr. Cole-Slaw entered the room once more, and found me seated at the desk.

“What have you been up to?” She asked, skipping past the “hello” and “how are you?”

I looked up from the paper. Little lines were drawn here and there. Nothing too fancy.

“Examining my psyche,” I told her, then folded my hands behind my head and grinned. It was a grin in the same way a popped balloon floated.

“What did you find?” She asked, and I thought I caught a hint of playfulness in her own voice. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.

“Air,” I told her. “Nothing but air.”

She put her hand on her chin and looked down, then squinted as she shook her head.

“Maybe if my own brain was at full capacity, I’d know what you mean, but I’ve been swamped with more things than I’m sure you’re willing to hear.”

I closed my grin, then pushed up my glasses.

“You don’t know that for sure. If nothing else, I’m a listener.”

“Yes, well, I’m sure you’ll have plenty on your plate once you get back home. Speaking of, are you ready?”

I lifted myself out of my chair and drifted over to the window. Beside the hospital was a small body of water, a pond. Skies were clear, the sun shone over the snowy landscape. Even barren, it could be a thing of beauty.

I put my hand over the glass and murmured.

“Do you think they missed me?”

“I’m sure of it,” she replied, the same softness I’ve heard her use on patients.

“Do you know who I’m talking about?”

“No,” she admitted. “But even as air, your presence is pronounced enough that I’m sure the place has felt different with you missing from it.”

“Yeah. You might be right.”

I turned around and smiled, not even sure what for.

“I suppose with this, we’re even. Or, now I’m the one who owes you a favor.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she met my smile with her own, and hers seemed more genuine.

I made my preparations to leave the room, and soon I would wait in the lobby for one of the hospital vehicles to take me back to my diner. For whatever reason, the silence of the in-between seemed to give me more excitement than my destination. No, there wasn’t a journey to be had. There were only resting periods.

When we arrived, I thanked the driver, slipped them some cash as a tip, then headed toward the door. There was a fog which had taken shape outside, obscuring all shapes around me, save for the modest restaurant without a name. From that fog, I felt a strong gust pull me forward, and I made my careful steps toward the door. As I opened the door, I looked back and the fog was gone. As if it were never there.

I shook my head. Little tricks of the mind like that were the last thing I needed. Call me superstitious, but something like that struck me as a bad omen. Then again, there was no fear which accompanied the vision (or lack of), and instead there was just the observation. Casual notation. If it were more out of the ordinary, I might have been my usual self and felt the obsessive need to explain or understand the how’s and why’s. Instead, I just walked through that door and into the place I called my home.

Slow and deliberate was my entrance. As I entered the diner and took in the scenery, a series of thoughts greeted me before any familiar face did.

What will I encounter? How much has changed since I left? Have things changed for the better, or worse? Has everyone gotten closer, or gotten along better? Or is there further friction? What of mystery? And intrigue? What developments, if any, have transpired? If there was a mess, will I need to clean it up?

During my time at the hospital, I never once believed anything would change when I returned. Why would I? It wasn’t like I was expecting much to happen while I was away. What with how little activity there had been over the past year or so.

So imagine my surprise when I walked in and saw people seated at the tables. Actual living and breathing people. Not many, mind you, but just the fact that they were there, and that I didn’t know them, was astounding enough. I was used to being familiar with everyone who walked through those doors. Ah, but maybe that wasn’t fair of me. Those days seemed long gone.

“Here’s your menu,” were the first words I heard spoken. They came from someone familiar, with that rough, but mousy voice, but her appearance was a little different. Her hair was tied into twin-tails with little braids in the back of her hair.

Menus? I wondered. Even when my diner thrived, I never had those. I’d just let people order anything that came to mind, and more than likely, I’d have the ingredients.

Nobody else seemed to notice me yet, nor did I notice Sunny or the other two anywhere. I made my way over to the table she was serving.

“Hey, who might you be?” One of the customers asked, a shaggy looking fellow with thick, brown hair going every which way and a bit of a stubble. I was about to open my mouth to introduce myself, but the words didn’t seem to want to come out. Demetria turned to address me as well.

“I’ll be right with yo-o-o –!” She just about jumped in place, startled at the sight of me. “Ray! Didn’t know you’d be back today!”

As out of place as I felt, no, more out of body than out of place, it was easy enough to act like my old self. Besides, it wasn’t like I was really all that different than the version of me that she knew. I gave her a chuckle in response, then cleared my throat before speaking.

“Well, I haven’t informed anyone that I would be coming back today,” I explained.

I wonder if that’s okay with you all. If that’s okay with Sunny, I thought, though the thought was rather ridiculous. Sunny couldn’t care less about things like advance notice. Hell, she might have been happier with the surprise entrance.

“Hello,” I faced the customer. “My name is Ray Sunshine. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I extended my hand (the new one) toward the customer and gave off the closest I could to a warm smile. He looked at my hand, then up at me.

“Sorry, man, but my hands got sauce on ‘em,” he informed me with a pile of food in his mouth. Probably a good call on his part, as I didn’t know where else his hands might have been. On his plate were enchiladas as well as biscuits and gravy. Outstanding.

I returned my focus toward Demetria.

“We have menus now?” I asked her.

“Oh, yeah. I’m no designer or anything, but I stayed up all night making little paper menus. Figured I’d make things easier for Tigershark, so I put down some things I know she can make and put random prices on them. I’m not that good at figuring out how much things should cost, so I just guestimated here and there,” she explained.

“May I take a look?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure,” she handed one to me. I scanned through the folded paper. There wasn’t a whole lot, and nary a selection of drinks, but what was there impressed me. Some breakfast food (good diner staple), some French and Italian cuisine, as well as a few good desserts to cap it off. I found some of the prices on the food to be a little too low, and some a little too high, but I could make adjustments to it.

“That was real nice of you,” I commended Demetria’s handiwork, even if it was rather rough around the edges.

“Nah, I just figure if it makes Tigershark’s job easier, it makes my job easier,” she waved off the compliment.

“And we have customers now?”

“Well...I wouldn’t say we’ve gotten popular, but there’s been a few people here and there.”

“Even still…”

...That’s impressive, I was about to say, but instead faced the gentleman with the messy hands.

“How did you come about this place?”

“So I’m, like, a cashier at this general store. Or I was until Aurora B. She robbed the place and I was like ‘go ahead, I hate my boss, anyway’ and before I ran out, I asked if she knew any good places to eat and she recommended this place.”

Why anyone would ask for food recommendations after getting robbed was beyond me, but I would be lying if I said I wasn’t used to people acting in unusual ways. What astounded me more was the name he said. ‘Aurora B’. I’ve heard rumors and stories about her. How ruthless her and her gang of bandits could be. I’ve considered trying to meet her at times, but then other things would always take up my attention instead. Still, it wasn’t hard to connect the dots.

“Aurora. She was here?” I asked, and waited for either person to answer.

“Yeah! But it’s okay because we recovered all our losses!” Demetria was the one to fess up. Odd, too, seeing as she was the one who would sometimes recite the motto “snitches get stitches.”

I put my hand over my face and shook my head.

“Shame she’s not here. I would have loved to meet her,” I muttered.

“Oh, by the way!” The guest reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife. “Aurora told me to return this to you.”

Demetria swiped the knife out of his hand and sheathed it in her pocket, then laughed a nervous laugh.

“Jeez, I can’t believe I forgot about this!” Despite the nervousness on display, there was a definite delight and excitement to her voice as well.

...Just how much have I missed?

There was more I needed to see.

“Do take care,” I bid the messy gentleman. “I hear things have been rather dangerous as of late.”

God damn, that sounded like stock dialogue for a fantasy setting. How distasteful. At least I could hold out hope that something would be done soon enough. That was, if I could put my trust in Remora, which I wasn’t sure I could. Hell, part of my initial excitement from hearing her plan was the simple fact that she had hints of a schemer in her as well.

Well, of course. She’s a sniper, not a dumb muscle. Maybe she’s not so good with understanding people, but forming a strategy must come as second nature to her.

I put such a note in the back of my mind. Everything in time, at its own pace. For now, I took my stride over to the kitchen, where Tigershark stood on a stool and stirred a big pot.

Despite it already being open, I gave the kitchen door a good knock.

“Hello? I’d like to speak with the manager,” I called over to Tigershark. She looked over and a big grin spread on her face. She jumped down from the stool and ran up to hug me.

“Ray! You’re here!”

“It would appear that way, wouldn’t it?” I gave a playful reply.

“Why were you gone so long?” She demanded to know.

What a good question. But what can I say? She must know that I was at the hospital, but that doesn’t explain the extended stay. Then again, what would? Usually someone like me would know what to say to anyone, but here I am with a loss for words.

“I was sick…” I tried to explain.

“I know! But I didn’t think you’d be sick for that long! You’re better now, right?”

Such energy. She wasn’t much for saying things quietly, was she? Still, she was perceptive and resourceful. Was it Remora’s doing or my own? Or maybe she had learned such traits from her parents, whoever they might have been. If only I could have met such people.

“I’m better now...I’m better now…” I muttered, and broke away from the hug. Maybe in some ways, I was, but in others, I had gotten worse.

“Are you sure?” Tigershark asked.

Oh no. Worrying a child was the last thing I wanted. For her sake, I smiled.

“Yeah, in fact, I’ve decided to give you a promotion.”

“What?!” Her eyes grew all wide, her hands balled into fists.

“Yes. I’ll be promoting you from manager to head chef. How does that sound?” I hoped she wouldn’t realize that was actually a downgrade.

“Yay! I’ll be the best head chef!”

That I’m sure. And I’m more suited to be the manager, anyway.

“By the way, best head chef, have you seen Sunny anywhere?” It was due time for a reunion, after all. My heart was in more of a rush than I was. No, I think I was misinterpreting signals. Instead, it might have been my continued hesitation. Was it a fear of facing her? Whatever it was, I felt like a schoolboy having a first crush. I loved to make others cringe, but with the way I felt, it was like I was getting a taste of my own medicine.

“She’s upstairs!” Tigershark told me while pointing up at the ceiling.

Let’s just get this over with, growled an impatient thought. That wasn’t me at all; if I was nothing else, I was a patient person.

“Thank you,” I smiled and softened my voice for Tigershark. “I’ll catch up with you later. I’d like to speak with the love of my wife. Err...my wife.”

If I made any more slip ups like that, my head would surely fall from my shoulders, and they didn’t make prosthetics for that.

So I made my way through the back of the diner and down the hall to the attic. Each step heavy with trepidation. Once I made my way up, I stood in place at the end of the bed: she was resting.

I let her rest. Nothing was urgent.

Unsure what to do next, I walked over and sat at the edge of the bed.

“I’m back. I’m still alive. Trying to live. Got a new arm and everything. It hurts sometimes. Like a swollen ankle hurts. Stings, less like a bee sting, and more like a failed operation. But the operation was a success. I think I feel out of place in my own home. I feel like I’ve lost my sense of self, but I know the version of me that people are familiar with. I feel like I can act like that person, even if it doesn’t feel as natural as it used to,” I recited, a low mutter. Though it was addressed to her, it was spoken in such a way that I hoped for her not to hear, so that she could continue to rest.

Instead, I heard a stir. There was a rustle in the blankets, then arms wrapped around me from behind, a heavy press of warmth. I took Sunny’s hands into my own.

“Mm. It’s good to see you again,” she yawned in her sleepy voice. Yet just as energetic, if not more, than Tigershark’s.

“Even if you heard all that?” I asked, not even sure if she had.

Her head was on my shoulder and I felt her nod.

“Sometimes the self comes and goes like waves, the tides pulling in, then back out to sea,” she mused.

I closed my eyes and thought of the ocean, but that only helped for a couple seconds, as thoughts turned to trying to figure out which ocean. Then my imagination conjured up images of a shipwreck, being lost at sea, and a lighthouse obscured by a fog.

“I feel like a fog,” I croaked out the words.

“Then can I be the sun to clear the fog?” Her voice soothed in my ear.

“You ask to be the sun, but can you handle its rays?” I retaliated in a way which was meant to sound romantic, but it didn’t really come out that way. To save face, I fell back and landed on her lap.

We both laughed and I turned to her.

“What’s wrong with us? You’re napping and I don’t know what to do with myself.”

“Even adventurers need to take breaks,” she said all matter of fact, like I needed such a reminder. “How’s your arm doing, by the way?”

“It’s like I never lost anything. See?” I lifted up my arm and pulled down my sleeve to show her. “Looks just like the real thing, even has fake hair particles on the ‘skin’. If not for the fact that it detaches, it may as well be considered the real thing.”

“Does it hurt?”

I paused and pondered the question.

“Sometimes. Mostly, it’s an adjustment. I can do most of the things I could before, and feel every action, as well. Yet at times I feel disconnected, like I’m detached from the things I’m doing.”

“I wonder what it’s like. Trying to discover your own skin again,” she mused. Once again, I returned the favor.

“I’d rather discover yours again,” I teased.

“Oho?”

I closed my eyes.

“But for now, I’d like to just lay here and rest.”

When I awoke, I was the only one on the bed. At first, I thought that I had returned to my old self, as I didn’t seem to have much of a care in the world and I was eager to solve a few mysterious, or at the very least, find things to amuse myself. Maybe none of those things were true, but I wanted to believe that for as long as possible.

I got up, showered, then donned a tuxedo without so much as a second thought. Once I had gotten myself all ready, I made my way to the kitchen up front and met up once more with Sunny and Tigershark, who were busy preparing meals.

After a good yawn, I greeted the two of them.

“How goes Sunny Delight and Best Chef?” I waved my hand as I addressed them. They both looked over and had wide grins on their faces.

“Hey hun, how was your nap?” Sunny asked.

“Simply splendid,” I replied, my hands in my pockets. I trotted over toward the open window of the kitchen and saw two ladies with a blanket over them. One with long, red hair, with lanky arms and a slight scrawny appearance. The other was shorter, and a little chubbier. She had short, blue hair in a pixie cut and looked rather full of herself.

“I see we have customers again,” I noted. “I wonder. Everyone’s got a story to tell, right? What’s theirs?”

Tigershark was the one to answer that.

“Demetria told me they were in a blizzard outside and nearly froze to death!”

“Oh, so that blanket must have come from her room?” I asked.

Tigershark shook her head with the fury of a tiger. “No! Remora’s! She said she knows what it’s like to be cold!”

“Oh,” I was just a little taken aback. To think Remora would do something nice like that. Well, maybe it made a bit of sense.

Despite the commotion in the kitchen, I was able to lean into the window and listen in on their conversation. At the moment, the red haired one had struck a conversation with Demetria. Something about Demetria’s cousin and unrequited love. It became clear from how exaggerated the story had gotten that the redhead was just making things up as she went, yet Demetria was captivated enough by it to keep asking questions, and each answer would turn instead to insisting on knowing where said cousin lived. It didn’t even seem like she was that interested in the cousin, herself, so I couldn’t understand the importance of such a story.

Still, I continued to listen. Then the kitchen door opened, and my attention shifted toward who was at the door: Remora. I didn’t recognize her at first because her hair had grown a little longer, and it was now in a near black color. Still, her typical posture and always-freezing demeanor was hard not to recognize.

“Ah, I was wondering when I would see you again,” I greeted. Something welled up in me. Anger, or bitterness, perhaps, but I did my best to push it down. No matter what it was, I refused to stop treating her like a guest and more than that, a friend.

At first she stood tall, then she slouched over and began to shiver.

“Hi. Yes. If anyone needs me, I’ll be in my room. Brr…” She chattered her teeth and groaned out the words as she pointed her thumb to her left.

“Wait!” I called after her. “Before you go, I’d like to know what you can tell me about those two out there.”

Her head swayed and shifted from one end to the other and then she looked back at me.

“I don’t trust them,” she stated. “Might have something to do with their hair…”

It took me a second to register what she meant, but then it clicked and a laugh slipped from me. Rather unintentional, too.

“What? Are you worried they might be alternate versions of you?” I joked. It didn’t come out with the same sly tone that I would have made the same comments with in the past. What replaced it was a bitter, dry voice. I really didn’t know what to make of myself. Perhaps lucky for me, she returned with a dry statement of her own.

“Ha. ‘Alternate-version-of-myself’? Am I a joke to you?” She bore her teeth and growled out the words. Yet her tone of voice was still so sterile and icy.

“Only endearingly,” I replied. “However, I do apologize if I took it too far.”

“I’m not mad, if that’s what you mean...I’m chill. Just chill.” Her knees shook and she began to rub her hands together. “I’m mostly wary because they talked about different timelines and versions of Earth. Forgive me if I’m just a little on edge.”

That surprised me. I was used to her being on edge, but not her apologizing for it. Had something changed for her as well to make her act in such a way? Or could it have to do with her plan?

“Understandable,” I told her. “I am surprised, though, that you gave them a blanket. That was rather nice of you.”

She blinked. “Was it? I just don’t like the idea of others having to go through the same thing I do. If anything, I’m only thinking about myself.”

“Whatever the reason, I’m sure they appreciated it.”

Then, I watched as she clenched her fists, before releasing them and taking heavy breaths.

“I...I’m trying. To not come off so abrasive. I don’t know why it’s so hard to be a person.”

I smiled, then looked back out the window and closed my eyes. I didn’t want her to see in case a tear were to fall. Same thing went for the other two in the room. Maybe Sunny could be privy to it, but the rest? I didn’t want to know.

“I don’t know, either.”

It was a solid few seconds. Less silence, more of a buzz. But when I turned around, my frigid friend was gone. Ah, was it even fair to consider her a friend? For my current state, it was hard to define what constituted that and what didn’t. I decided not to pursue an answer, as I believed no matter how I would chip away at the answer, I would come up fruitless. Instead, I let myself be swept in the idea that I could play at being my old self and strike up a conversation with the two.

I headed out the kitchen and when I got out the door, Sunny called to me.

“Where are you going?” She asked.

“What kind of manager would I be if I didn’t ensure guest satisfaction?” I turned to her with a smile and a suave little short nod.

My heels tapped against the floor and each step was a careful one, as if I were preparing for a dance. The one with the red hair turned to face me and I just about cleared my throat when I realized I was missing my glasses. So I reached into my pocket, took a cloth and cleaned off the lenses, then placed them on.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” my greeting a natural (imitation of a) cordial tone. I hope your meal has been well. I am the owner, Ray Sunshine. Please let me know if you need anything.”

Said redhead waved her hand away as if she were working up a rude customer broadway act. I could only imagine what she would say next.

“Yeah, Raymond? Can I call you Raymond? Look, this meal has been fab,” I looked down at her plate and noticed she hadn’t even touched it. Either she wasn’t really hungry or she just got too distracted talking things up with my waitress. “But I’ve got a lot on my plate. Some bloke stole my rental car, and I was only renting it to get to the airport. Now, my body’s built pretty tough, I’ve eaten my spinach, but I’m hopeless without a GPS, so I’m a little unsure how I’m going to get to the airport now.”

Again, quite a ridiculous string of dialogue, and I would be remiss to say I wasn’t used to hearing such things, but with the two pieces of evidence I had beside me: the name of the city she had managed to extract from Demetria and that Remora mentioned them hopping timelines. What was I dealing with? Some kind of cosmic drifters? Whoever those two were, I couldn’t help but let out a chuckle.

“You guys can’t hustle me,” then I squinted my eyes. What are you two really after? I refrained from asking such a question out loud. There was reason enough to be suspicious and yet, I found myself unable to care about the whole thing. “Not only that, but it’s unnecessary.”

Then, I did something rather uncharacteristic of me:

“There’s a hatch in the kitchen which leads to our basement. That’s where we brew all our ales. You’ll find a load of barrels down there. In the back of the basement, there’s a door which leads to a tunnel. You follow that tunnel all the way through and at the end of the tunnel is another flight of stairs and another hatch which leads to the airport,” I recited the words, eyes closed. To think I would disclose such a secret, to strangers no less. Whatever their motive or reason, I found I couldn’t care less.

“Why do you have something like that in your basement?” She asked, rather puzzled at the notion. Didn’t she know that most diners had a basement? Or maybe just the few I’ve visited.

“Let’s say it’s come in handy when a few deals have gone sour,” I stated.

“I see. And you’re just gonna let us go through there. I mean, I appreciate it, but why?”

I put my hands in my pockets and shrugged.

“Maybe I’m feeling generous,” I walked away after that. I didn’t really have a good reason. Maybe I never had a good reason for any of the things I did. I shook my head and retreated to the back. Back to that familiar desk with all those stacks of papers. I know what I said to Remora, about her being in charge of it. Call it selfish of me, but I hoped she would return that position to me so that I may have some semblance of my old life.

I held the stacks of paper full of requests in my hands. Each one I read through, I set aside in frustration. Most were junk, and the ones that weren’t seemed like obvious traps. What ever happened to the interesting ones? Or the ones where the deceit wasn’t so obvious?

Fingertips of my new hand met their way to my forehead as I looked down and shook my head. Back down at the papers, I noticed how some of them were interesting. Requests for heists in dangerous locations, recovering ancient artifacts, investigating rumors of certain monsters in certain regions. Those kind of things. But maybe that’s why they weren’t appealing to me – they were all the kinds of things I’ve dealt with in the past. Once, I would have found them interesting.

Most of the so-called “monsters” would usually have mundane, albeit weird, explanations. There were the heists and other dangerous endeavors, but after years of smooth talking, cutting deals, and infiltration, I found it all too tedious.

I set the stack of papers down and leaned back into my chair. I just about took a nap in it until I remembered those two visitors. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone, then dialed Cybele’s number. After a few rings, she picked up.

“Hello?” She sounded just a bit tired, like I had woken her up.

“Hello, Cybele. Sorry if I woke you,” I replied.

“You didn’t. I just always sound tired. Anyway, how have you been? I tried to check in a few weeks ago, but you weren’t there. I met your accountant and she said you were shot and had to go to the hospital. Are you okay now?” Sill asked, still sounding tired, but a hint of worry as well.

“Yes, I’m all better. What’s this about an accountant?” I asked, though I already had an idea what was going on.

“You know, Rae Morris? She looked pretty official, anyway.”

I didn’t know why I always had to learn from secondhand accounts that Remora went and introduced herself with made up identities, but it was obvious ‘Rae Morris’ had been her.

“Right. I forget about the people I hire sometimes. Anyway, I just called to let you know that two people are going to show up to the airport.”

“Oh? You want me to take them somewhere?”

“No, I…” I wasn’t sure what I wanted to tell her. If there was anything I really wanted. Those two could have been bad news, or they could have been honest-to-goodness down on their luck folks who needed a place to go.

“Oh. Then what about them?” She sounded disappointed. Hell, when was the last time I gave her work?

“Yes. Take them to their destination and keep a close eye on them.”

“All right, do you want me to report anything to you afterward?”

“No, unless you find anything worth reporting.”

“Oh, okay! It’s good to hear from you, by the way.”

“Yeah. You too.”

I hung up the phone and I was surprised to see Demetria sitting in the chair in front of me. She had her arms folded and pursed her lip with a worried look on her face.

“Yes? Can I help you?” I asked and wondered how much she heard of my conversation. Not that it mattered. It wasn’t anything too private.

She pointed her thumb behind her in the direction of Remora’s room; the door was open, something I wasn’t used to seeing. I couldn’t get a clear view of the rest, so I didn’t know what I was supposed to notice.

“What about it?” I asked.

“She’s shivering,” Demetria informed me, as if she had just learned that water was, in fact, not a dry substance.

“And?”

Her eyes widened, then her brow creased and a frown formed.

“What do you mean ‘and’? What if she’s sick? Shouldn’t we try to help her?”

“There’s nothing we can do to help,” I informed her.

“Why? What do you mean?”

“I think it’s better to ask her yourself.”

“I would, but she doesn’t like talking about herself and I try to respect that.”

“Have you never noticed her shivering before?” I really was dumbfounded, something I thought was no longer possible.

“I have! But I just figured it made sense, given the setting. But it’s hot in here, isn’t it? And there’s times it’s really hot in here, so I don’t know. Like, I think she messes with the heater, which, if it helps, fine. I can manage. I just think one of us should try something to help, it can’t just be that there’s nothing we can do. If not me, someone else.”

“You must really care about her.”

“Maybe? But it’s not like I want anyone else here to get sick.”

“What about when I was sick?” I asked, and it seemed like my bitterness was really starting to show, yet I meant no malice.

“I never noticed, and next thing I know, bam. You’re in the hospital.”

I see. I really didn’t need to hold it against anyone, seeing as I kept it a secret until it got bad enough that I had to be admitted.

“I’m curious. Is it still a crush or something else?”

She lowered her head.

“I...I don’t know. Sometimes I get these ideas about her and I, like being pinned to the wall, or being kissed all over, or being put in a headlock, but then I’m not really sure if I want those things or if I just think I should want them. It’s really weird, like, I know I can be a lot sometimes, and I’ve been trying to ease up, but I don’t know how to act sometimes and it comes out bad. I really am trying, but it’s hard when I don’t know what I want.”

That she found herself able to admit such a thing to me, I couldn’t help but feel just a little bit proud.

“Just be patient. Some things take a while to figure out,” I replied, not sure if that was the right piece of advice.

“I know I admire her, though. I really don’t want to disappoint her and I’m really hard on myself when I feel like I do.”

If anything, you may find yourself being the one disappointed, I thought. One of those things that was better left unsaid.

“Like I said, be patient with yourself, and with her. You may not think so, but there are things she finds difficult as well.”

“I’ll try…”

Of course, after such an honest conversation, Remora walked out of her room. Demetria looked up and the excitement she must have felt must have outweighed anything I tried to get through to her in conversation. I would say “ah, to be young again,” but I don’t think I ever acted in such a way toward anyone.

“Remora! Are you doing okay?! I can get you a warm towel! Or rub your back, if you need me to! Maybe you’ll warm up if we hold hands!” Demetria jumped up and down and all the while, Remora just stood there with a blank expression on her face, unsure how to respond.

“I know I’m not really good at cooking like Tigershark, but I could make you some soup! My mom used to do that all the time when I was sick!”

“Uh…” Remora was, without a doubt, at a loss for words.

“We could wrap ourselves in blankets! And hold each other real close! And –!” Then, Demetria stopped, and shook her head. Her voice lowered to an ashamed whisper as she said, “sorry,” before running off to her room.

Remora continued to stand, speechless, before she turned to me and asked, “why is she like that?”

For some reason, it never occurred to me that Remora didn’t see the signs. After all, it was so obvious to anyone else.

“You mean you don’t know?” I leaned forward and asked.

“Know what?”

“Do you not know what a crush is?”

She made a gesture where one palm of hers was flat, while the other was folded like she was about to claw at someone, then squeezed the flat palm.

“No, not literal. Like...infatuation?”

“Oh. Of course I know that.” She blinked, then asked. “So that’s what her deal is?”

I nodded.

“If that’s all it is, then if I just have sex with her, it’ll go away, right?”

I…I sure was glad I never brewed myself some tea, because otherwise I would have spat it all out.

“What?! How do you figure that?!”

“I mean, get it over with, problem solved, right?”

“That would just wind her up more!” I was exasperated. Sheesh. “Right when I thought I had your thought process figured out, you go and floor me with this.”

“Floor...you?”

I shook my head, my palm against my forehead.

“I don’t see what the problem is. If I don’t have anything going on, as long as the other person is satisfied, I don’t mind. It’s not like I feel anything from it, anyway.”

Huh. Learned something new, I guess. Even so…

“I don’t think that’s the right idea for this situation,” I informed her.

“Why not? I can’t have this keep going on. She does all these things that I don’t understand and it frustrates me. She always tries to get my attention and wants me to be impressed by simple things and sometimes thinks I’m mad at her, when I really just don’t want to talk or am just confused. Then, the rare moments she says something serious, it’s also something I don’t understand because I’m not used to being questioned. I’m not used to it.”

After all that, she was in a huff, but she continued.

“I’m used to not understanding people. But I’m not used to being told things that permeate my thoughts for days on end as I struggle to find the answer. I can’t deal with the constant focus on me. Those weird requests and reactions. It’s too much.”

“Please be patient with her,” I tried to reason. “She’s a little lost in life right now and doesn’t really understand what she wants. I know it can be hard to deal with, but I don’t think she means bad.”

Whatever my intention was with that, it was lost on her. She took a second, then replied:

“Maybe in other cases, I could be patient. If she were a target, I could bide my time, as long as the job was done. This is different. I need this dealt with now.”

She then walked toward Demetria’s room. Before I did, I called to her.

“Are you really going to...err…?”

“No. I’m just going to talk. I need to make sure this is resolved.”

I watched her approach the door, give it a few knocks with the back of her hand, and then the door opened for her. As it closed, I too began to think of the both of them, but with a different matter:

Now that I was back, the plan would soon be in action. I knew Remora intended all of us to be a part of it, and while Demetria survived that mansion incident, and there was the ‘girls night out’ with Sunny, I still wasn’t sure it was a good idea for someone like her to be involved in such a dangerous excursion. That went for Tigershark, as well. No matter how strong she was, she was still a kid, and I just couldn’t imagine the idea of putting a child in danger. Especially considering…

I’m going to have to discuss this, won’t I?

Maybe that’s what I had been avoiding, but that didn’t make sense. I was excited to hear about it at the time, and it seemed like it would benefit all of us. No, I think it had to be something else. Just like what I had told Sunny. There was a disconnect, and I too no longer knew what I wanted.

So I waited. It wasn’t that I had always exhibited patience throughout my life, but I saw things as a nice cup of tea: in order to get the desired flavor, it needed to sit for a little while.

That was a nice sentiment, but after a while, and them still in that room, my desire to find out what their conversation was about took over, and I got up out of my seat and motioned through the hallway. I stood in front of the door, unable to hear anything. I was sure that if I leaned my ear closer, I could have caught something, but I decided against it.

This feels voyeuristic.

More than that, I found I had no real interest in listening in aside from a mild curiosity.

I turned back and headed toward my desk, when I heard laughter from the two of them.

Oh. That sounds...positive?

Before I could reach the desk, I heard the door opened and out stepped Remora.

“Were you listening in on us?” She asked, and I turned around.

“I only heard laughter. I assume it went well?” I replied with a softened voice, and tried to work in a smile. In turn, she looked away.

“It was uncomfortable.”

“Oh? Why? Did she say or do something to make you uncomfortable?”

“It’s not that. I just don’t like to talk about myself in such a revealing manner. Which I did, that is, if she picked up on enough things, anyway.”

“Well, if it was so uncomfortable, why did you do it?”

“Because it needed to happen.”

As I sat back in my chair, I addressed Remora, which I was sure she was tired of having any kind of conversation.

“At the risk of possibly making you more uncomfortable, may I speak with you for a bit?” I inquired as I motioned for her to sit. She took her seat in the swivel chair in front of my desk.

“Is it important?” She asked.

“I believe it is,” I replied. “It’s about the mission we’ve discussed at the hospital.”

“Yeah? What of it?”

“I don’t think we should take Demetria along,” I began. “I don’t think she could handle something like that.”

“She’s more capable than you realize. We already discussed it, too. As long as all of us work on protecting each other, there should be no problem,” she explained. I still had my concerns.

“Nor do I think we should bring Tigershark along.”

“Fine. She’ll stay here,” she was quick to compromise. But that wasn’t what I was getting at.

“I don’t like the idea of her being by herself, either. I doubt much harm would come to her within the diner, but I still don’t feel comfortable with it,” I argued. By now she must have thought I was just being difficult to work with. Oh well. Same could be said about her.

“Then what do you propose?” She asked, and I got to thinking. Once I figured out a solution, it really was a contradiction.

“We all go together, but after a certain point, probably once things get too bad, one of us heads back with Tigershark. It doesn’t matter which of us does so, I’ll even volunteer if I have to, but I think it’s better that way.”

“How will that work without being noticed?”

“First, nothing is certain. But, worst case scenario, I don’t think she’d want to be there to see or hear it. Second, I’m sure you can work up a distraction.”

“Is that all you wanted to discuss?”

I gave her a short nod, which prompted her to tilt her head.

“Sorry, I guess I’m not done after all,” I added.

“That sounds like you, all right.”

Ha. As if the rest of what I was about to say would.

“I thought over many things while I was in the hospital,” I told her. “I don’t expect you to understand as I hardly understand, myself. But I’ve been evaluating how I’ve been, all the things I’ve done, and I have to ask, do you think of me as a clown?”

“No,” she answered. “I’ve managed to dig up some of your history, and through all your schemes and resources you’ve acquired through manipulation, it would leave some to think that you were building up something, or that there was something complex about you. But I think I understand now that that’s not the case. Rather, you seem to do things just to see if you can. You’re neither a clown nor a court jester, because you don’t seek to amuse anyone but yourself.”

Ah, there it was. Funny how the one who understood people the least would be the easiest one to talk to.

“You may be right about that,” I admitted, without a hint of amusement. “You know, when I was younger, I would make myself busy with little things I didn’t really need to do, all to make myself seem busy. There were men who I dated, or had relations with, anyway, who I would have them wait for arranged dates and ‘schedule them in’. I suppose that’s not too abnormal for someone busy, but I would also demand that they call to confirm our arrangements. As I told them, the reason behind it was that I always had something going on, and I never knew when something important might come up. The truth was, most of the time I just wasn’t interested in them, no matter how attractive I found them or how much I meant to them.”

“Why does that matter? Dwelling on those things doesn’t matter considering you’re much older now,” she replied, and she was right to say so. None of those relationships lasted, through no fault of them, and just the fact that they often caught on to how little I cared for it.

“That’s the thing: I don’t think I’m all that different now. Aside from Sunny, my daughter, and to an extent, Tigershark, I feel I care little for others.”

“Not even me?” She asked, and I found it odd. Just as odd as her earlier statement about how to deal with Demetria.

“Why do you sound disappointed? I thought you didn’t care about others.”

“I don’t, but it’s just that you’ve tried to be accommodating toward me, so I just thought that you did.”

“You don’t have to care about someone to be nice to them. I try to be welcoming toward everyone I work with.”

“I see.”

Although there wasn’t really any emotion behind her voice, she still seemed disappointed by my answer. I just didn’t know what else to say about it.

“Look, it’s not that I can’t or won’t ever. It’s just a strange feeling I have. It’s just like you said, I had no particular reason behind the things I did, except for that they provided me amusement. But now they do nothing for me. I’ve started to feel a sense of emptiness about it all and I wonder how I managed to keep up such a carefree facade for so long. It’s like I’m trying to put on an act like I am how I’ve always been, but I don’t think I’ve ever been genuine. I feel like it’s growing harder to mask my bitterness and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with my life, if anything.”

She wasted no time in her response, as she leaned forward, her elbow on the desk, and her hand covering the right half of her mouth, as if she were about to tell me a secret and she didn’t want anyone else to know.

“I’ll be honest with you, this isn’t exactly the happiest place on earth,” she rasped, and any other day, I would have let out a chuckle. I think I had reached my quota.

“No, I suppose it isn’t.”

“If anything, I’m surprised it’s just now starting to affect you,” she continued. “I mean, the harsh weather conditions, the isolated area, the many deaths that have occurred, it’s enough to make anyone bitter.”

“That’s why I I admire Sunny so much. See, her carefree attitude is genuine. We’ve had hardships and she can be fairly rational at times, but through it all, she’s kept a positive attitude.”

“I imagine it helps to have someone like her around to get you by,” Remora concurred. I felt a dizziness befall me and I no longer desired to remain on the subject on hand. Or rather, I no longer desired to be the subject at hand.

“By the way, what made you choose this place?” I asked instead. She shrugged in response.

“It seemed the most fitting place to be, given my condition. That, and...this feels like the closest to a home that I know. I believe I was born in the area, or at least, I was found somewhere close by.”

“I think I can see the logic in that,” I replied after some thought. Then, one last question came to mind. Something that I never thought to ask, but felt like I should have been curious about.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but I’m just curious, why Remora? There’s no pun associated with it, and not to mention, you never changed your last name along with it.”

She scoffed. Or chuckled. It was hard to tell, really.

“Yeah...real careless on my part. There’s a funny story about that, actually.”

“Yeah?”

“It was sometime when I first arrived in this timeline, I wasn’t yet recognized, I had just changed my hair to red, and I felt free to go wherever I wanted. So I walked through a random city one day and came across an aquarium. There was one large tank with sharks inside, and next to those sharks were these weird fish with suction cups. Next to the tank was the name of said fish, and it said ‘remora’. I found it odd how those things latched on those sharks, and how the shark just...let it. I knew it wasn’t that interesting, but I couldn’t bring myself to look away, either.”

“So that’s why?” I asked.

“No, otherwise I’d have walked into a sandwich shop long ago and decided my name was Turkey Club. Rather, I was about to move on to the other creatures on display, but then this young woman approached me, rather out of the blue, too. She said hi, and I didn’t know what to say. Like, she asked if I liked fish, and I told her that they tasted good. Then she started to ramble on about if she were a fish or something, I don’t remember. But I do remember her stomach growled, and people do act weird when they’re hungry, so I offered a bit of money.”

“Did you ever learn that person’s name?” I asked, already having an idea who the mystery person was.

“No. It was a random encounter, anyway. I’m surprised I even remember that much. Anyway, she asked for my name and I just drew a blank and said the first thing that came to mind, which was the name of that weird fish attached to the shark. After a while, I just decided the name would stick, since after all, I didn’t plan on meeting anyone, anyway.”

“About that young woman, what do you think you would say if you ever saw her again?”

Again, she shrugged in response.

“I don’t know. ‘You better have been eating well’ or something? Like, I know I for one don’t like being hungry, so I’d hope she’s been taking care of herself. But otherwise, I don’t know if I’d really have anything else to say, seeing as I doubt we’d run into each other again.”

“Yes, but hypothetical speaking, I think it’s interesting to imagine such scenarios. Those ‘what-ifs’.”

“Heh. I suppose so. Sometimes I think it’s a rather small world, even though I know the opposite’s true. Like, there’s so many people, but somehow you end up finding others who are connected to you in some way. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Indeed. That’s a good way to put it: small world. Short, even.”

“Huh?”

“Oh, never mind,” I told her. “It’s getting late and I know we all have many things ahead of us, so I should try to get some sleep.”

It felt odd, but I thought I could see just a hint of a smile on her face. I wondered if it was genuine, or if I even saw a smile at all.

“Yes, I agree. Rest, then,” and then she stood from her seat. I did the same.

“One last thing, Remora,” I added.

“Yes?”

“You seem different from how you were before as well,” I remarked, then headed toward the staircase to the attic so I could meet the one sunflower in this tundra. As I made my way up, I heard Remora’s voice from behind me.

“I don’t see how,” was her reply, and though there wasn’t so much of a warmth to her voice, I didn’t quite catch the same iciness that I was used to.

Then again, I still wasn’t quite sure if I was correct on how I perceived anyone to be anymore, let alone myself.

#writing #slice of life #melancholy #fiction #ray sunshine #velvet and coriander cameo #remora #sunny #tigershark #ray is back #lots of talking #long chapter #story

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hedwigstalons · 4 years

Text

The Tracy Prize - part 19

A boring afternoon at work led to the creation of Claire, the rather grumpy and tech-phobic chemist. I never expected the little fic she spawned to run to over 25k words. I may also dig her out in future as there were other scenes that didn’t really fit this story.

Thank you to everyone that came along for the ride. Each like, reblog and comment was very much appreciated. @willow-salix thank you for digging me out of several plot holes. And thanks to @gumnut-logic for opening the door and welcoming me in to this fandom, I probably wouldn’t have attempting writing Virg if it wasn’t you.

So now…the final part.

Here are the earlier parts for those that want to go back to the beginning: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12, part 13, part 14, part 15, part 16, part 17, part 18

xoxoxox

Claire sat on a bench in the locker room near the hangers, wrestling with a rust coloured boot. After a determined tug her foot popped around the bend in the heel and she was able to close the seals around her calf.

The synthetic fuel had been cleared for field testing. She knew Virgil was already in the cockpit of Thunderbird Two, waiting for her to suit up. She didn’t want to keep him waiting. She was looking forward to spending some time with the engineer.

She wondered how her life had managed to take such a surprising change in direction. Just a few short months ago International Rescue was just a name that appeared in news reports. Anonymous heroes who swooped to the rescue. Now it meant a houseful of people who risked their lives on a daily basis to help whoever made the call. People that she was proud to call her friends. Her thoughts lingered on one particular operative that she wished was more than just a friend.

As she adjusted the prototype uniform she reflected on exactly how this particular development had come about.

It had been a difficult day for all of them. One of those days when the tension in the villa thrummed like an over tightened guitar string. One of those rare days when Scott had announced he was out of his depth and called for outside assistance over the comms. He had made an error and needed help dealing with the fallout, both literally and figuratively. It had fallen to Claire to guide him through the process of decontamination from the material that coated himself and his body cam, obscuring Claire’s view of the tools and substances at his disposal. That coating had turned out to be lithium hydride, a tricky substance that had the tendency to spontaneously ignite in humid air. It was a tense time as she talked the First Responder through the clean up procedures, all the while hoping he wasn’t about to catch fire.

When Scott had finally made it home some 20 hours later he looked distinctly older than when he had set out. He had announced that perhaps there would be times when it would be useful to take the chemist out in the field to try and avoid these situations occurring in the first place. Claire had been inclined to agree with him; if Scott had paused and consulted her before charging into the factory he would never have got coated in the volatile substance in the first place.

What followed was a whirlwind of sketches, concept design and finally the prototype uniform.

A uniform that was currently highlighting its flaws and would definitely need a redesign.

She would gladly have gone on the test flight in her usual clothes but Scott has insisted that, since she had a uniform, she should wear it when going off-island on International Rescue business.

Claire gave up trying to get the zip on her back done up. She picked up the helmet and rebreather kit that turned her uniform into a grade two certified hazmat suit and headed towards the hangers.

xoxoxox

Virgil looked up from his pre-flight systems checks as Claire entered the cockpit. Technically he could have taken this test flight alone but he thought the chemist ought to get the chance to experience the result of her hard work first hand.

If he was being completely honest he found himself seeking out opportunities to spend time alone with Claire. He pushed those thoughts out of his mind. Claire was dedicated to her work. She seemed to enjoy his company but had given no indications that she was interested in him being anything more than a friend. She was a professional to the core.

“I hope we won’t be needing those” he said, indicating the helmet and rebreather in her hands.

“You and me both, but Scott said to keep all the parts to hand.”

Virgil knew the sense in that. You never knew what could happen when out on a mission and it paid to be prepared. His own helmet was close at hand.

“So how does it feel? Does everything fit?”

His eyes raked up and down the petite form, currently clad in the ruddy tones that marked her out as one half of International Rescue’s scientific division. Of course it fitted perfectly. The full body scans taken as part of her medical had ensured that the garment was perfectly sculpted to her form.

He forced his eyes back to her face, hoping she hadn’t noticed his lingering gaze.

“Well the material is a little stiff. I think the polymer coating is reducing its flexibility. It also takes far too long to get on. The biggest problem though is this.”

She spun around revealing the triangle of bare flesh at the top of her back.

“If the main fastening stays at the back I’m going to have to get changed into uniform en-route so one of you others can buddy check my seals. I just can’t reach it right. Please can you finish doing me up?”

Virgil felt a lump form in his throat.

Claire held her ponytail out of the way so Virgil could finish closing the zip without snagging her hair. A firm hand then ran slowly up her spine from base to neck, sealing shut the protective flap that covered the zip. Claire’s body tingled in response. Her mind wandered, imagining those same strong hands reversing the action later and freeing her from her uniform. She gave herself a mental shake. This was Virgil. A colleague. It was…inappropriate.

Virgil returned to the pilot’s seat while Claire took the co-pilot’s side that was normally occupied by Gordon.

This would be her first time being piloted by Virgil but not her first time flying in Thunderbird Two. That first trip was tainted with bad memories. Her first flight had been spent in worried silence. Gordon at the controls. Virgil in the med bay, out cold from the dart she had been responsible for shooting. She was still haunted by visions of Virgil crashing to the floor of the conference centre, the dart stuck in his chest.

The atmosphere in the cockpit today was excited rather then worried, but still serious.

The ability to control the Thunderbirds remotely meant that several test ignitions had been trailed but this would be the first true flight using the new fuel. The chance to test if reality lived up to expectations.

Virgil opened the comms link to both island control and Thunderbird Five.

“Pre-flight checks complete. Everything responding as expected. Thunderbird Two is ready for take off.”

“I’ll be keeping a running watch on your systems readouts and I’ll keep comms open,” John responded, his hologram floating above the control console. “Stick to you pre-programmed route I’ve sent you. I’ve alerted the GDF that you are on manoeuvres so we can expect a call from Aunt Val later.”

“Why are the GDF involved?” Claire asked.

“Just common courtesy. We give the GDF a rough flight plan and they alert any military operational in the area. It saves any cases of mistaken identity. We don’t want Two shot down again.” John replied.

Claire looked alarmed.

“That only happened the once, Johnny.” Virgil had still never truly forgiven the US Navy for crippling his beautiful ‘bird.

“Yeah, well that was once too many.”

Scott’s voice cut in. “If you two have quite finished…”

The rock wall disguising the hangar entrance lowered as Scott activated the mechanism from inside the villa.

Virgil taxied his Thunderbird out on to the launch pad. The pad tilted upwards and the view from the cockpit changed from one of sea to one of sky.

Virgil directed power towards the thrusters.

An intense roar filled the cockpit. Vibrations built up in intensity. The mighty craft slid forwards and took to the skies.

“Thunderbird Two is go.”

xoxoxox

Virgil concentrated intently on the flight. He had spent so many hours flying Thunderbird Two that he was fully attuned to her quirks and moods. He felt each difference in response and behaviour without the need to check the instruments for confirmation. The engine pitch was slightly lower. The vibrations slightly stronger. He tried a few turns and altitude adjustments and was pleased to see that Two responded just as well as before.

It was time to test her for speed.

Virgil eased the throttle forwards. Scott’s voice came over the comms, reading out their velocity in increments.

“6,000 kilometres per hour.”

“6,500 kilometres per hour.”

“7,000 kilometres per hour. Approaching previous top speed.”

Virgil continued to push the throttle. He could feel that Two had more to give.

“8,000 kilometres per hour.”

“9,000 kilometres per hour.”

As each increment was read out the tone became excited.

“10,000 kilometres per hour.”

Claire looked across at Virgil. A huge grin was plastered across his face at the raw power under his control. It was as if Two was singing to him. She hummed as he pushed the throttle to the maximum.

“!0,200 kilometre per hour” he whooped. “Maximum throttle reached. Easing off now and returning to base.”

“FAB Virgil. See you back home soon.”

The pure delight Virgil was experiencing was evident. He practically bounced as he guided the craft back over the Pacific Ocean. Their island home was soon visible again.

Virgil switched to VTOLs and brought them in to land.

xoxoxox

The two occupants of the cockpit grinned at each other, their eyes shining. They were buoyed by the thrill of success.

Harnesses were released.

Claire found herself enveloped in one of Virgil’s bear hugs. The air nearly crushed out of her body by his exuberance, her body held firmly against his chest. She found herself returning the hug, wrapping her arms around his waist, burying herself in those powerful muscles.

“You did it! You actually did it!”

Virgil was still riding the high of emotion. Claire’s feet lifted off the floor in the engineer’s delight. When she was placed back down she felt a kiss planted on the top of her head.

The pair of them both stilled and stiffened as the action registered.

Claire looked up to meet warm brown eyes that looked ashamed, scared…hopeful?

Virgil cursed his lack of self-control. In that one unguarded moment he had risked everything. Claire had changed a lot since coming to the island but she could still be prickly on occasion. Her flares of temper were becoming less frequent; there was more laughter, more enjoyment in being part of a team, but she had never invited him to cross this line.

Virgil braced himself for the backlash.

The backlash never came.

Their eyes remained locked. Neither let go of the other. Arms continued to encircle bodies pressed close together.

Claire found herself sinking into those chestnut depths.

Lips tentatively met, at first hesitant with the fear of rejection, then pressed more firmly as each explored the object of their secret desires. Neither wanted to that moment to end. Blue pressed against rust, the colour the only way of distinguishing the entwined bodies.

When they finally broke apart, eyes bright and cheeks flushed, Claire reflected that she might not have got the research grant but she had surely won the greatest Tracy prize of all.

-FIN-

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds fanfiction #scott tracy #virgil tracy #john tracy #gordon tracy #alan tracy #kayo #brains

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bonesthebeloved · 4 years

Text

I'll write you bloody murder- intrulogical

Trigger/squick warning: mention of murder, blood, bullet wounds, surgeries (sort of).

Pairing: Romantic Intrulogical (they're married Y'all. Hell yeah)

Based on one of this prompt @chronophobica: 'Logan and Remus doing the serial killer and writer married couple trope.'

Hope you like it bud.

The little black bar on his screen flickered in and out of existence as Remus stared at the half-done page typed out on his laptop.

He was about halfway through the rough draft of his most recent horror novel and was just starting on the description of a rather graphic scene when he suddenly got stuck mid-sentence describing where the poor victim got slashed with a hunters knife.

He shuffled around in his chair, the thing a dark green colour clashing dramatically with the neon pink sleeping shirt he was currently wearing.

The apartment they lived in was small but cosy. Plants and soft chairs filled the livingroom. The large, jet-black couch and oak slab they used as a coffee table the centrepieces of the comfortable living space. The oak currently holding various notebooks, pens and cans of red bull on it, his coffee mug balancing dangerously on one of the armrests.

"Logibear?" he shouted into the quiet space, taking his eyes off his laptop too instead focus on the black ring around his finger. Twisting it around and feeling the words edged into the metal under his fingertips.

A few moments of silence and Logan's cool voice came floating back towards him.

"Yes, my love?"

Remus grinned at the pet name. He'd never get used to that. Logan, who as always so cool and collected and would be described as cold by an outsider having a pet name for him made him all mushy inside as if it was the first time he'd heard it.

He shook himself. Focusing on why he'd called out for his husband.

"What's the most painful place to get stabbed that wouldn't leave any lasting damage?"

"The lateral lower quadrants of the abdomen I believe. Both left and right upper quadrants have vital organs or veins that could be harmed if the victim got stabbed in that general area," Logan answered quickly. Casually. As if they were talking about the weather instead of where to best stab a person.

But then again. Remus didn't mind. Even more so he was happy that his husband knew all of these strange facts because it made it a lot easier to write out gory scenes.

He'd never wondered why his husband knew so much about murdering and torturing people. Or why he knew exactly how many organs a human could lose before their body gave up completely.

He was a medical professional after all. He was supposed to know these things.

Even if his loves fascination with killing rather than saving lives was a bit worrying at times, Remus didn't blame him. Would be hypocritical to do so even.

He was a writer after all.

Logan working in the medic field also explained why he sometimes came home late smelling like fresh blood while his eyes twinkled with something close to insanity.

It explained why the car was always spotless when he'd come back from long days or weeks even where he had to be present at the hospital.

What it didn't explain, was why Remus had found blood splatters on his regular clothing when he'd put them in the washer.

But he hadn't cared as much back then. Simply shrugged and thrown them in the washer. Having convinced himself that he must've imagined it by the time he'd gotten into bed and wrapped his arms around his love, nuzzling his face into the back of Logan's neck and breathing in the scent of home. Of wood and chlorine and the newly added blood smell. Of safe and slightly worried.

And when months flew by and Remus published his new book, itching all over when he had to put on a suit and tie and sign books and be nice to people, Logan had sat beside him, button-up as pristine as ever and his hand with the pure black band around his ring finger laced loosely with Remus his own.

And when a man who had been standing in line to get an autograph had cussed him out when he saw him next to his husband, Logan had excused himself. Saying he needed to go to the bathroom and walking away. Making Remus watch as he walked right past the bathrooms and followed the man further into the bookstore.

And when Remus heard about another murder on the news and saw the man's face pop up he'd ignored it. Shrugging off that particular feeling he couldn't quite place that had been growing ever since he'd noticed the first bloodstains on his husband's shoe and going about his day.

Shrugging off the cold shiver that ran down his spine when he found a little sticky note with the dead man's name and address on it under the couch. The thing probably having fallen out of Logan's calendar the day before when he'd come back late from work with that strange look in his eyes and a red smear across his cheek that he swore was jam before he'd gone to the bathroom to wash it off.

They laid in bed that night like always:

Remus in his briefs plastered against his husbands sleep-shirt covered back and face nuzzled into the back of his neck. Logan was completely lax with his hand covering Remus' own that were resting on his abdomen. Their rings clicking together when one of them shifted.

And deep in the night, when Remus wasn't even quite sure if he was awake anymore or simply dreaming, he looked at the back of his husband's neck and dared to ask.

"Did you kill him, Lo?"

And Remus would convince himself that he had been dreaming it. Starting on a new book and buying him and Logan a puppy for their anniversary. The setting of the fire alarm with his attempts at cooking and throwing clothes with the tiniest of blood splatters in the washing machine while acting like he hadn't seen the red splash.

Like his husband coming back from work a bit too late and a bit too happy while smelling of fresh blood as he kissed him hello was something normal. Like knowing exactly which veins to hit and how long it would take for the victim to bleed out was part of the job.

"I killed all of them." Logan had whispered back. And Remus had only hummed in response and wrapped his arms around his partner a little tighter. Intertwining their hands as their wedding bands clicked together and deciding right then and there that this had not actually happened.

And when the police were called on him because his novels were a bit too graphic and descriptive to be totally innocent he had sighed and let them look around his apartment. Dutifully telling them that his roommate had moved out a few months ago and giving Logan a strained smile and a kiss when he came back a few weeks later, blood on his shoes and a few scratches from where one of his victims had struggled on his left arm.

And he hadn't said anything when the new announced that bits of skin and tissue had been found under a victims nails and that they were scanning for DNA results.

And he'd stood in the middle of their apartment as they barged through the door. Logan whispering an I love you before three shots rang out and Remus realised that two of them had hit his love, one nestling itself right between his eyes.

The third had hurried through Remus his own body and shot out on the other side. Getting stuck in the plaster wall dividing their living room and bedroom.

He was vaguely aware of crawling towards his love lying still on the floor. The look of shock from when the first bullet had pierced his leg clear on his face. The bullet hole between his eyes seeming laughably small compared to the exit wound.

Remus was vaguely aware of making a joke he'd had one of his characters make when they had been shot as the special unit surrounded the two men on the floor and pointed their guns at them.

He was vaguely aware of the hilarity of it all. Laughing to show his amusement and getting another bullet through the leg as a reaction. But he laughed. The shock already having dulled the pain as he sat next to his husband. Hands intertwined and their rings clicking together as Remus thoughts about how they ought to have missed the lateral lower quadrants of the abdomen and hit something else that could be fatal right before he lost his balance and his body came falling down onto the floor.

An inch before his head hit the floor he was gone.

And the news report that morning went as followed: serial killer Logan Sanders and novelist Remus Sanders shot and killed when the authorities had come to collect them. The later was believed to have helped with the brutal murder of the 37 victims his partner had tortured and killed.

Though this claim would never be proven, the people had accepted it as a fact and millions of the author's books were thrown away or burned that day. Some people keeping theirs, looking at them with new eyes and telling a guest that came over about how 'these are the books of a murderer.'

Remus Sanders his last published book wasn't written by him but rather by a woman who had done excessive research on his case. Documenting his life and the way he'd fallen in love with a serial killer. How they came to be partners in the most horrid of crimes and the bitter end of this tragic love story. The victims of his husband and how the two behaved so elegantly at family dinners.

The book starts with the following sentence:

'The little black bar on his screen flickered in and out of existence as Remus stared at the half-done page typed out on his laptop'.

Taglist: @purp-man @crazycookie13o @deceitifullies101 @sapphire-knight @ragingdumpsterfiremess @chronophobica @lance-alt @mylifeisadeceit

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holmesiswherethehartis · 4 years

Note

please write Zavier realizing hes gay for Danny if you're feeling it! this fandom had like 4 fics i need it😂

One Zavier x Danny fanfiction coming right up!! This is my first fanfic, so forgive me if it’s shaky, but I did my best. It’s long—I’ll warn you now—but hopefully that will keep you occupied!!

Part One

Warning: Contains Firestarter references and spoilers

Zavier traced his fingers along the map, following the path that he planned on taking to the city of Bern, Switzerland. He had toppled that tower in early November, and without a doubt, the Builders planned on putting up a new one. Last he’d seen of the Builders, they were still working their crimes in Bulgaria. Hopefully, they still had a week or two before any of them split off and came their way.

“You called a meeting?”

He cast a glance over his shoulder, then quickly returned to the map. “Edmund. You’re early. I was thinking we could meet up once everyone had a chance to eat. You know how Liddy gets when she’s hungry.”

Edmund whistled. “She got that from our dad. He had a temper.”

“He had a drinking problem.”

“That too. But you should have seen him when dinner wasn’t ready the minute he got home.” He walked over to him. “Anyway, what’s the meeting about?”

“I want to change our route to include going to Bern. I think we can get there before the Builders do, and maybe send some kind of warning to the clock mechanics union there.”

He was so concentrated on the map, it took him a minute to realise that the coughing sound behind him was actually Edmund laughing and trying to cover it up. He looked over his shoulder, and his suspicions were confirmed.

“What?”

Edmund shook his head. “It’s nothing. I think it’s a good plan.”

He hated it when Edmund did things like this. Ever since they were young, he had liked to hide things from Zavier. He was sort of like an older brother--but he was the kind of older brother that picked relentlessly on his siblings. Nevertheless, they got along very well. Zavier trusted Edmund more than just about anyone else. He usually told things to him before he even brought them up to Sally or Aunt Jo.

Still, he didn’t like that he was snickering at him. “What? What’s wrong with it? Did I make a mistake?”

Edmund couldn’t wipe the grin off his face. “No, not at all. I just think your sudden interest in mechanics and their unions and everything is… touching.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Zavier asked, even though part of him already knew the answer.

“I’ll let you figure it out. Use your brain for something besides staring at maps all day. By the way, I came in early because I needed to talk to you.”

Zavier raised an eyebrow. “About?”

“Mister Hart wants to know if he’s invited to this meeting. He says he’s well enough to walk.”

Danny.

Zavier doubted that he was, in fact, well enough to walk. Earlier that month, in the city of Prague, Danny had rescued him from an exploding clock tower--a situation that Zavier had gotten himself into--and he had taken the fall for it. Since then, Zavier had gone to check on him constantly, but he was rarely awake. On the occasion that he was awake, Zavier usually turned around quickly and left the room before Danny noticed, pretending that he’d walked into the wrong place. He wasn’t sure how to go about saying ‘thank you’ to the mechanic quite yet. He felt immeasurable guilt, and he was caught in a web pulling him in one thousand directions. Should he say sorry? Thank you? Sorry and thank you? He’d stopped blowing up clock towers completely, ever since Danny’s boyfriend, a very sweet clock spirit named Colton, had asked him to. But somehow, that didn’t feel like enough. What Danny had done for him was the kind of thing that couldn’t be repaid in a single lifetime.

Maybe he ought to take him back to London. The poor young man had already lost so much at Zavier’s hands. He deserved a break.

But giving him a break would mean that he would need to find a new way to figure out the secret of time. Meena had already claimed that she didn’t know it. Daphne scared him too much for him to go near her. It had to be Danny.

But Danny deserved to go home.

For some reason, the thought of him leaving made Zavier...sad. An image in his mind manifested of Danny going back to London and never thinking twice about the Prometheus. Whether or not that would happen should Danny go, Zavier was left in the dark. But he couldn’t get it out of his head. He would miss Danny. Yet, Danny probably would be better off back in London, unbothered by the thought of the Prometheus or any of the people on it. Him included.

It was as if he wanted to somehow give Danny everything, but the situation kept forcing him to take more away. Time after time, Danny saved him and gave him a second chance. One of those times--Zavier didn’t remember which one, it was somewhere in between talking with him on a bench by a fountain in Prague and seeing him as he floated in and out of consciousness in the tower--something had changed.

One of those times, he had stolen a glance at Danny for no reason.

Another time, the young mechanic had made him laugh.

Once, he’d been unable to sleep, and he’d been looking out over the sleeping city of Prague. Danny had woken up, too, and they both pretended to not notice each other. Zavier had curled back up on the floor and tried to fall asleep, but he hadn’t been able to. Maybe it was because he was so tired--but more than anything, really, he’d wanted to stay up with Danny and talk with him. Even for just five minutes.

Something inside him… wanted Danny to stay. It had nothing to do with time anymore.

Zavier wanted him to be happy. More than that, though--he wanted to be someone who made him happy.

Just like he did for him.

“He… he can come to the meeting if he wants,” Zavier replied. “If he thinks he’s stable enough to walk.”

Edmund winked. “I think he’ll be happy to see that you’re sticking up for unions like his.” Then, he left the room.

Zavier didn’t need a mirror to know his face had gone red. “What the hell--what--”

There was no use talking to the door, swinging behind his friend as he’d left.

Part Two

Just as Zavier had suspected, Danny needed help to even walk inside the meeting room. Edmund was helping him, supporting him on the back and allowing the young mechanic to drape his arm over his shoulders.

The second the two of them came inside, the entire dynamic of the room changed. No one else seemed to notice it, but Zavier felt it as surely as a change in temperature. He was no longer talking to his crew members about making a course change. He was taking a stand, of sorts. He was letting the world know that he was starting to care.

Maybe the entire world wasn’t listening. Danny was, and that was all that mattered.

He collapsed in a chair, and instantly, Zavier could see his muscles relax. Walking was still hard on him. But after a long, deep, cleansing breath, his shoulders dropped and his chest stopped heaving.

Zavier cleared his throat and tried to focus on the rest of the room. Astrid and Prema were snickering about something in the corner, faces too close to one another for it to be overheard--even by Liddy, who was sitting next to them with her arms crossed as she munched on some crackers. Edmund sat next to Danny on the other side of the table, with Ivor and Felix on his other side. Dae had neglected to show, as Zavier had suspected. Aunt Jo was still up flying the plane. Closest to him was his younger sister, Sally Holmes. She sat silently as always, her grey eyes softly on him.

He gave her a brief smile before he sat down. “Thank you for coming here on such short notice. I’d like to make a change to the route that includes stopping by the city of Bern in Switzerland. The Builders have not yet gone there to put up a new tower, as they were mostly preoccupied in Bulgaria, and before that, India. However, they are nearing the area.We know that the Builders have a ritual that they perform, and it involves sacrificing a clock mechanic.”

“Murdering,” Danny breathed. It was only just loud enough for Zavier to hear, but if he heard it, he could be rather certain that everyone else did, too. He was about as far away from Danny as possible--both physically and emotionally speaking.

Zavier cleared his throat. “Murdering might be a more appropriate term, yes.”

Edmund grinned knowingly at him. Zavier ignored him, though it was difficult as the murmur swept through the whole room. Even Sally, his own sister, seemed to find something funny.

“Anyway,” he continued, hoping that his cheeks were not as red as they felt, “it might work in our favor to stop by Bern and alert them of what’s coming. The fewer casualties, the better. There is a strong mechanics union there, and if we warn a few of them, I suspect that word will spread. In order to do that, though, we’ll need to actually stop in Bern for a day or so. We’ll need fuel anyway. Thoughts?”

Liddy raised one hand while she wiped crumbs away from her chest with her other one. “I’ve got a question.”

He hoped that it had nothing to do with his sudden desire to help the mechanics unions, but before she finished her sentence, he knew it was exactly that. “Yes?”

“Why are you suddenly protective of mechanics?”

You could have phrased that better, he thought. This time, there was no hoping that his embarrassment was hidden.

“Liddy’s got a point,” Astrid elaborated. “We ‘ave not exactly ‘elped mechanics in the past. They might not be open to us.”

“I’ll admit, this is different for us,” Zavier responded, choosing his words carefully. He glanced over at Edmund, who gave him a small nod of approval. “But after what we saw happen in Prague--”

At this, he accidentally looked at Danny.

The mechanic looked tired, and at the mention of the city’s name, his eyes fell down to all the cuts and scrapes on his arms. Then, he looked up again, and for a brief second, and his emerald gaze lingered on Zavier.

Zavier, trying and failing to not sound distracted, continued talking. “I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

For some reason, that made Danny smile.

And his smile made Zavier feel happy.

It made him feel like maybe, an apology wouldn’t be so hard. Maybe he could do it. Danny might even forgive him. Hell, part of him wondered if Danny was even upset. His smile looked so reassuringly genuine.

The rest of the meeting went on, and Zavier answered any questions thrown at him. It took a mere ten minutes for things to draw to a close and for his crew to leave. Edmund walked over to Danny and offered to help him stand up and walk back to the medical wing, but he politely declined. Instead, he looked over at Zavier. “Would you mind if I talked with you for a minute? Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble.”

Without thinking, Zavier smiled at him. “I wasn’t too scared.”

Edmund walked over to Zavier and patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll see you later, Z. Good luck.”

Good luck? What’s that supposed to mean, Ed? he thought. But Edmund was gone before he got the chance to continue.

So, he walked over to Danny. “You wanted to talk.”

He nodded. His green eyes looked brighter with the dark circles around them. Zavier was fairly certain his shirt was on backwards, but decided not to say anything. His hair almost looked windswept, though no one had been outside in a few days--especially not Danny.

“I’ve actually been wanting to talk to you for awhile, but you never came and saw me in the hospital,” he began.

That wasn’t true. Zavier had gone and seen him several times. Twice a day, at the beginning. It was just… he didn’t want Danny to see him. He hadn’t been ready.

“I suppose I have missed you. I did check on you--quite a bit when you were first admitted to the hospital. I just didn’t realise you had a reason to want to see me.”

Danny looked up at him. “Of course I have a reason to want to see you. The last time I was conscious and in the same place as you, we nearly died. I know I’ve been doing pretty shitty, what about you?”

Zavier sighed. Something about the way Danny said it made him want to smile-- there was a distinct sense of sarcasm--but he was also worried that he might be telling the truth. Perhaps everything had been horrible for him. “I’m sorry, Danny. We’ll do what we can for you--”

“You missed the important part.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“I asked you how you’re doing.”

I have been wanting to talk to you for days, but I’ve had no idea how to go about doing it. I feel guilty. I want to apologise to you and help you put everything behind you, if that’s what you want. But I can’t. I made a promise to free Aetas, and you’re the only way I’m going to do it. I don’t want to hurt you. But what else can I do?

Instead of saying any of that, he just cleared his throat. “I’ve healed up pretty well. Still have a bit of a limp, but even that’s not too bad anymore.” Then, he nodded to him. “Thanks for asking.”

Danny returned the nod. “Of course. Yeah, anytime.”

Neither one of them spoke after that. Maybe the silence lasted a minute, maybe it was an hour, or maybe it was only a few seconds. Danny could stop time. He could control it. It made sense that Zavier lost track of it when he was around him.

Finally, Danny looked over at him with his tired expression. There was something in his eyes--maybe mischief, maybe excitement--that both momentarily terrified and exhilarated Zavier.

“I know you wanted me to have some kind of revelation when I read Prometheus Unbound,” he began, “but I didn’t. I took something else away, it just wasn’t what you wanted.”

The book had been fascinating, but only to Zavier. Sally had read it and told him that she found it boring. Edmund hadn’t even finished it. “What was it?” he asked.

“At one point, the character Demogorgon says that all things are subject to eternal Love.”

Zavier paused, waiting for Danny to go on, but he didn’t. “What’s so captivating to you about that line?” he asked.

Danny looked over at him. “I think that it’s true.”

“And?”

He leaned in. “And I don’t think that you’re an exception. I think that you’ve loved and loved, and you’ve lost and lost. You told me about your mother. I think that it’s easier for you to pretend you’re cold and heartless, but you’re not. You love more and deeper than you’re letting on, and frankly, I think that the concept of loving others has started to terrify you. But you do. You do, and I see it.” he was getting more passionate the longer he spoke. His voice wasn’t rising, but it was growing more heated. “I think you’re trying to forget what love feels like, because you don’t want to get distracted from your work. To you, it’s so much easier to make everything about work. About Aetas and your mom. But you’re subject to love, too. And you need to start showing it, or else I am not going to work with you.”

With that, Danny stood up. He was having a hard time walking, and so Zavier stood up to help him, but the mechanic dismissed him.

“Don’t. I can get back. It’ll be good for me to walk on my own.” He stabilised himself against a wall and looked at the leader of the Prometheus. “I’m not trying to sound mad. I just think you need to get it together.”

Usually, he would have lashed out at Danny, but he was already in poor enough condition as it was. So, instead, he straightened his jacket, readjusted his collar, and looked at him. “Sorry to disappoint you, Danny, but love needs to come second, in my line of work. There are millions of people that depend on my succeeding in this mission, and I ought not to let them down by getting caught up in my own emotions. There are bigger problems out there.”

Danny shook his head. “You need my help, and I won’t help you until you break down a few of your own walls. I tried to do it for you, but obviously, it didn’t work.”

Zavier watched Danny leave. He was struggling with walking, but if he wasn’t going to accept the help from him, there was no point in offering.

So, he turned back to the map, pretending to study it. His eyes drifted immediately to Prague, and he took a deep breath.

His walls were broken. Did he really need to shout that to the world in order to get a simple answer from Danny Hart?

There were other ways to find the secret of time. Maybe, he didn’t need Danny’s help. He could improvise.

Part Three

“How was it?” Edmund asked, stepping into line with Zavier as he walked down the hall.

Zavier shrugged. “It could have gone better. Danny says that he is not inclined to work with us.”

“Anything new?”

He sighed. “He was just rambling about how I don’t show enough emotion. Things like that. I’m trying to help the mechanics unions--is there any pleasing him?”

Edmund bit his lip. “I was going to talk to you about that, actually. The whole emotions thing.”

Part of him wanted to tell Edmund to save it for a rainy day, but he decided that he was too tired to argue. “What’s your stance on it?”

“I kind of agree with Danny. But, that’s not what I was going to say.”

Zavier raised an eyebrow. “What was that, then?”

“I--can I talk to you in a more private place?” he asked. “I don’t want Liddy to hear this. She won’t drop it.”

“That bad?” he asked, lips twisting up into a half-smile.

“Oh yeah. If Astrid or Prema hear it, they’ll go nuts. This needs to be private.”

And so, the two of them stole away to a small room off to the side. It was usually used by Felix and Charlotte when they needed ro get away from everyone and share sweet conversations. There was a couch and a window, but not much else.

Edmund stayed standing while Zavier took a seat. “Zavier, this is a theory that I’ve had for awhile. It’s… regarding your taste in people.”

“I don’t… taste people.”

“Well, not yet,” Edmund replied, tongue-in-cheek.

Zavier, for the one thousandth time that day, flushed bright red. “What the bleeding hell is that supposed to--”

“Never mind!” Edmund interrupted. “Forget I said that. You’ll know what it means the day you figure out what it means.”

“Who are you, Nietzsche?” he asked. “Are you trying to philosophise something here?”

“Nietzsche didn’t talk about this stuff, Z. Also, just don’t compare me to that guy.” He took a deep breath. “Anyway, I think that you like men.”

How many people could lecture him about love and romance in a day? Zavier groaned. Edmund was starting to sound like Danny, with his talks about love and acceptance. “Is this really necessary?”

“Yes! I think you’re in denial,” he continued.

“What about me makes me seem like I fancy other men?” he asked, quickly closing off his body language. He crossed his legs and his arms, and then for good measure, leaned back.

“Well,” Edmund began. “Let’s start with the basics. Men who like women don’t dress in white button-up shirts with vests or wear their shirts tucked into their pants.”

Zavier’s face grew hotter. “Men with status do.”

“You’re a criminal. An outlaw. A vagabond labeled by the masses as a terrorist.”

“But I have style,” Zavier protested.

“You also put far too much effort into combing back your hair and sometimes even gelling it.”

“I’m sorry, are you criticising my fashion or is this going to feed into your point?” he asked, getting annoyed.

“Oh, no. It feeds in. But up until this part, it could all be written off as a strange sense of style.”

“Strange?” Zavier asked. “Is that what everyone thinks?”

“But what happened in Prague--you got visibly upset when I asked if Danny would be uncomfortable sleeping with another man. You stood up for him.”

“I just don’t like discrimination.” Then, he quickly added, “I didn’t feel like you were necessarily discriminating--”

“I wasn’t. You knew that. You got protective over Danny. Also, you took him out and sat for nearly half an hour, talking with him on a bench by a water fountain. You two were laughing. He made you laugh. You need that. I think he brings out the best in you, and he seems to really care. He took the bullet for you, so to speak, in Prague.”

Zavier uncrossed his arms and leaned forward. “Are you suggesting that I’m interested in men, or are you trying to set me up? Because it clearly won’t work. He’s in a happy, albeit illegal, relationship and I won’t allow anything to come in the way of that.”

The moment the words left his lips, he realised that he could’ve phrased it better.

Edmund smiled. “I think you care for him quite a bit. But we can leave off for today at you accepting your romantic preference in men.”

After that, he left. Zavier leaned back on the couch and looked out the window, trying to comprehend what had just happened.

There was no way he liked men. He didn’t have a romantic preference. Frankly, he didn’t believe that romance was his thing.

His mind drifted back to Danny, as it had been lately when it had nowhere else to wander.

All things are subject to love.

“That is a line from a book,” he reminded himself. “No matter what Danny and Edmund are trying to tell me.”

For some reason, though, that line had started to stick in his head, too. And he associated it with Danny, and his brief smiles, witty jokes, and selfless character.

All the things that made Zavier lose his composure and start to laugh. They were what had broken down his walls, and made them crumble like a clock tower to the floor.

It all came back to Danny. Every time.

With a start, he even realised that he’d been thinking of Danny while Edmund talked to him about being in love with other men.

Zavier didn’t fall in love. He couldn’t afford to. There was too much for him to lose, and too much that had already been lost. He didn’t want to add Danny to that list. It was a composition of broken hearts, tears, rage, and a sense of helplessness. Danny was… so much more than that.

Danny was happiness that spontaneously caught him off-guard, appearing out of nowhere and refusing to go away. He was a sense of security and belonging. He was a reason to be a better person, someone to look forward to.

That was when it hit him.

Love was happiness that spontaneously caught him off-guard, appearing out of nowhere and refusing to go away. It was a sense of security and belonging. It was a reason to be a better person, someone to look forward to.

Edmund was right. He fancied men.

Zavier was in love with Danny Hart.

Part Four

Danny collapsed on the hospital bed. The talk with Zavier had taken everything out of him, even though it had been worth it.

Colton was already inside, waiting for him. He ran over and helped him lay down in a more comfortable position. “Danny! Why didn’t you have anyone walk back with you? You should not be walking around by yourself right now. You’ll get hurt!” He paused. “I’m gonna make a great dad someday. Just listen to me.”

Danny laughed. It still hurt like hell to even breathe, and so the laughter felt like a medieval torturing method, but he couldn’t help himself. “Thanks, Colton.”

He smiled and kissed Danny on the forehead. “Really, though. I don’t want to see you walking around and getting yourself all banged up.”

“I won’t! I promise, Colton,” he replied. “I just needed to stretch my legs.”

“And?”

Danny sported a lopsided grin. “And I needed to talk to Zavier. It went alright, but he didn’t like what I had to say. I didn’t get punched, though.”

“That’s a plus. He’s getting better.”

He stretched out, and Colton sat down next to him. He leaned in closely and kissed the top of his nose, and then sat back up to allow for his boyfriend to keep talking.

“I told him about that line that made me think of you during Prometheus Unbound. The one that goes ‘all things are subject to love’,” he continued.

Colton ran a hand down Danny’s cheek. “You’re so sweet. What did he think of it? Did he have a revelation about clock spirits having emotions, too?”

He shook his head. “We’ll get there. I was actually trying to talk to him about his own emotions. I told him that I wouldn’t tell him the secret to time unless he started breaking down his own barriers. I want him to show that he cares, and stop pretending like he can’t show weakness. Weakness is what makes us human. And I want him to see that he’s human, too.”

The clock spirit smiled. “You have a lot of faith in that guy. Do you think he really does feel love? I personally thought he was a sociopath, until he stopped blowing up towers.”

Danny laughed dryly. “I think he’s got more of a heart than he lets on. And I want to see it.”

“Who would he love, though? I mean, I know he loves his family and his mission and things like that, but who would he love? Romantically? I just can’t see him in a relationship with anyone here. Maybe he’d fall in love if he ever left the Prometheus.”

Danny thought for a moment. Who would Zavier love?

He went through the options in his head. Liddy was too obnoxious, and for some reason, he felt that Zavier deserved better than a girl like her. He deserved someone who would watch out for him and protect him. Someone, he thought, who would bring out the better parts of him.

There was Daphne, but she was in a relationship of some sort with Akash. Besides, she hated him.

Meena was far too young. Zavier was twenty-two, whereas Meena Kapoor was only sixteen. Eight years apart, with one being a minor, was way too much of a gap for Danny to want to think about.

Astrid and Prema were together, too. And they both liked women, not men.

Then, a thought struck him.

What if Zavier liked men?

It was a bizarre thought, but he decided to bring it up to Colton. “If anyone, I think he’d make more sense dating a bloke.”

“You think?” Colton asked. “Edmund seems like too much of a brother figure to him. Dae hates him. Felix is old and married. Akash is together with Daphne.”

“Dae hates everyone, except you, to be fair. But… I don’t know.” He took a deep breath. “It’s not our place to decide, anyway. This is his love life. I just meant that I think he should start showing more happiness and fondness toward other people. I tried so hard and for so long to force even a laugh out of him.”

Colton stroked his hair gently. “Did you? Did you ever get him to laugh?”

Most of what had happened in Prague was blurry in his head. Bits and pieces came together until he could stitch a picture of what had gone on. A few things, though, were clear.

He had sat on a bench by a water fountain and talked to Zavier. Zavier had asked him if his scar ever hurt him, and he’d asked him the same question. Then, he had made him laugh--or maybe that was before--by making a morbid joke. That time, he hadn’t even been trying to be funny. It was just a witty comment that came to mind, so he said it. Zavier had liked it.

Edmund had asked if Danny would be comfortable sleeping with another man. Zavier had instantly stuck up for him and even given Danny an entire bed to sleep in, alone, in case he was uncomfortable. It might not have been saving him from a clock tower, but he had been so willing to give up his own comfort if it meant that Danny would sleep soundly and without trouble. Looking back on it, he almost wished that he’d invited Zavier to sleep with him.

Next to him, he would have been able to make sure the young man was alright.

One night, he had woken up and thought about escaping, but then he’d seen Zavier, sitting on the floor and staring out at the city of Prague with a sense of young innocence that had been unfamiliar to his face. More than anything, he had wanted to sit down and talk to Zavier about why he was awake so late. Danny had nightmares--maybe he did, too. He wanted to know if the two of them were as similar as he thought.

Similar, and yet strikingly different. Danny wore his heart on his sleeve, whereas Zavier kept his tucked away. Danny saw beauty in everything, and Zavier struggled to find it at all.

Zavier needed someone like Danny to keep him stable.

Colton could see where his train of thought had arrived, and he started to mess around with his hair again. “You’re worried about him.”

Danny looked up. “I think I can help him. I just really need him to open up to me.”

“How much?”

It was a hard question to answer, but Danny knew what he wanted to say. “Entirely. I want to see him admit what he’s feeling, and I want him to ask for help. I want to see that side of him that he hides away from the rest of the world, because I think I can help heal it. I want him to--”

I want him to love me.

Colton understood what was implied. “Do you think he ever would?”

“I don’t know, Colton. Frankly, I don’t care. I have you, and you’re all I could ever want.” He reached up and ran his hand through his golden hair. “I will always be yours. That won’t ever change.”

Colton leaned in and kissed him. Danny kissed back, hand still on the back of his lover’s head.

Soul meets soul on lover’s lips, he thought, pressing himself as close to Colton as he could go.

It was a refreshing feeling, and once they both pulled away, he couldn’t stop smiling as he looked at him.

“I know it wouldn’t,” Colton replied. “You have proved that to me, one hundred times over. I’m not suggesting that you should leave me.” He slowly laid down next to him and put his hands on Danny’s hips. “I don’t think either of us could actually survive not seeing each other for a week.”

“And you’ve proved that one hundred times over,” Danny joked, thinking back to all those months ago, when Colton vandalised his own tower, just so he would come back and fix it. It had been over a year, even though that feeling of seeing him for the first and second and third time was still as fresh as ever.

“But I don’t think you should push Zavier away. I think you’re right--he needs you,” Colton muttered, only loud enough for the two of them to hear. “He’s falling apart, but he’s not letting anyone see.”

“He’s got Edmund,” Danny replied. “Sally. His aunt.”

“But I think he needs you.”

The mechanic touched his forehead to the spirit’s, and they stayed in that position for nearly a minute. Finally, he gathered the words that he wanted to say and started to talk again.

“Don’t get me wrong. I loved kissing you and holding you and having you on top of me back in the tower, right after you saw someone else kiss me, but I don’t want you to get jealous again. It’s a hard feeling, and no one deserves it.”

Colton laughed. “Don’t worry. I’ll kiss you and hold you and lay on top of you any day. I don’t need to be jealous.”

“Time sped up. Almost a day.”

He smiled. “It was a good day. We were both having fun.”

“I know. But my point is, I know how you are when you get jealous. You get overwhelmed with passion. And while I love the feeling that gives me, I don’t want it to happen more. It puts other people in danger. You’re a clock spirit. We can still be in a relationship, we just can’t do that together. And I don’t want you to feel left out--”

“Danny.”

He looked over. “Yeah?”

“This is different from Harland, back in Enfield. That guy wasn’t thinking about you. I didn’t like him.”

“And you do like Zavier?” Danny asked, confused.

“I like the version of him that you talk about. He sounds really pleasant, when you describe him letting you have the whole bed to yourself and whatnot. He’s putting you first and himself last.” He paused. “I also like the fact that he stopped blowing up clock towers when I asked him to. I think he’s getting softer.”

He almost laughed. “No. He’s not getting softer. I tried to get to him--”

“I think you did.”

His laugh fell short. “Really?”

“Yes. Listen, Danny. I want you to be happy. If it’s going to take two people to make you happy, then I want you to be in a relationship with two people.”

Danny thought for a moment. Did Zavier make him happy? He had held Colton and him both as prisoners, up until recently. Now, though, they were allowed to go anywhere they wanted, and he treated them as equals.

That made him happy, in a satisfying sort of way.

Zavier had kidnapped him multiple times and threatened him. He had been cruel and cold. That, too, had changed in the past couple of weeks. Recently, he had stopped any kind of blackmail and Danny had even heard discussion of Zavier dropping him off back in London.

That side of Zavier made him happy, too.

And then there was the side of Zavier that he had seen in Prague. The side that wanted to protect him and look out for him.

That made him happy enough that he considered taking Colton up on his offer to attempt to hold a relationship with two people.

“I can’t push you away.”

“You wouldn’t have to. And I don’t think you would. He needs you, Danny. Maybe he’s not even in love with you, but the more I think about it, the more I think he is. He checked on you a lot in the days following the explosion. He cares about you in a different way than he cares about anyone else on this whole ship.”

“All things are subject to love,” he whispered. “You think he loves me?”

“I do. And really, I wouldn’t mind if you kissed him. Besides, he stopped blowing up clock towers for me. I guess I can try to share.”

Danny leaned in and kissed Colton’s cheek. “Alright. I’ll see what I can do. I think we’ve got a long road before he admits anything.”

Although inside, he knew he’d done it. He really had broken down Zavier’s walls.

#hellhart #danny x zavier #zavier x danny #danny hart #zavier holmes #tara sim #timekeeper tara sim #timekeeper #chainbreaker #firestarter #timekeeper trilogy #timekeeper series #tara sim timekeeper #colton bell #bellhart

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erintoknow · 5 years

Text

Family

i had things i wanted to do today that weren’t writing, but okay brain, go off? fallen hero fanfic, chargestep, content warning for some sucidal thinking, but not much i hope? also; kissing!? oh no | ~3.1k words

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You ought to be using Jane: to scope out your next hit, to maintain her network of contacts, to catch up with Dr. Mortum. That would be a productive use of your time.

So of course you aren’t doing that.

You’re in front of your work desk, sleeves rolled up as far as you dare. Your suit doesn’t need repairs, but getting in that marginal improvement to the Rat King’s coolant system is better than sleep. Better than making corpses walk. Better than stupid meaningless dreams of coughing blood and their fuzzy half-memories tasting smoke and death. Don’t think about gunshots and lightning, the smiling reflection dripping shark teeth.

Focus on the soldering torch in your hand and the music in your headphones.

It doesn’t matter what you play. Whatever you can get your hands on, the best genre is free after all. Right now it’s some woman you’ve never heard of before with a low sometimes raspy, sometimes screaming voice. She’s energetic, easy to sing along with while you re-solder wiring for the third time.

You don’t recognize that it’s your phone ringing until the fourth chime. You almost drop the torch into your lap scrambling to pick it up before the call goes to voicemail. “Who’s this?”

“Ari!” Oh, it’s Ortega. Of course it is. Why the haste to pick up the phone anyway? Who else was it going to be? The President? God??

“Ortega.” Don’t sound excited, don’t sound relieved to hear her voice.

“I know it’s short notice, but are you busy right now?”

Say yes you’re busy, way, way, too busy, hang up on her. “No, I’m pretty bored for once, what’s up?”

“Great! Can we meet up?”

Don’t say yes. Don’t say yes. Don’t say yes. “Yeah, sure, where?”

*******************************************

The smell of salt under oil. The water hasn’t been safe to swim in since before you were ‘born.’ Yet, a part of you yearns to run out to the sand and into the crash. Hazy memories of another beach, another shore. Nothing you can remember, more like 0 kb files tucked away in somewhere.

“Careful, with all that fabric on you’ll sink.” Ortega nudges you.

“I’ll just have to push you in first for a raft.” You shoot back.

“You’d think I’d float with all this metal in me?”

“All that hot air makes you a very buoyant old woman.”

You don’t need to look at her to know she’s frowning at that, and just knowing that is enough to bring a small smile. You want to grab her hand, feel the disks of metal that give her namesake. You don’t. You can’t. She’s your enemy even if she doesn’t realize it. Even if you don’t realize it.

The wind pulls at the rat’s nest you call hair. Maybe you’ll start trying to comb it again. Just to keep Ortega from worrying even more about you. You can worry enough for the both of you. “Why’d you want to meet up so suddenly, anyway?”

You can’t read her mind, but you know her enough to pick up on the change in vibe, the way she shifts in how she carries herself. It sets you on full alert. “There’s something I’ve been sitting on for a while actually.”

“Oh?” You try to sound casual, like there aren’t sirens ringing in your head. Like you aren’t glancing around for the best route back up the beach where Ortega can’t follow.

“There’s just never been a good time for it…” She glances at you, and the two of you meet eyes. There’s no hiding your fear that way and she grimaces at it. “Do you have any family? Still around, I mean.”

You can’t take her gaze on you, you step away towards the water, feel the sand crunch under your boots, hide your arms under your shawl. “Family?” You ask, your confusion at least genuine enough. It’s been a long, long, time since Ortega fished that well. “What’s bringing this on?”

“After you…”

“Died?”

“After that. At the funeral–“

*******************************************

I’m in deep shit now. The red and blue of ambulance lights reflect off the wall through the window, as I hunch over in the chair. Honestly, it’s just a broken nose, he’ll live. He deserves worse for what he was saying about you. And yet, I’m the one here hiding in the minister’s office while everyone else loads into their cars. Steel puts a hand on my shoulder, squeezes, lets go. I’d rather he give a lecture, that would be at least a gasp of normalcy. I nod at him, he nods back, leaves without saying a word. He’d make a better Marshal than I ever did. He wouldn’t punch out a reporter live on national television. He wouldn’t have gotten you killed.

Everyone else has left by now, probably all gossiping about the fiasco. There’s something unnerving about being alone in an empty church. I wonder what you or Themmy would think of all this. You both would probably both be mortified. A church service? With a priest? Well… you don’t get a vote any more, should have stuck around if you had objections.

“H-hello? Excuse me?”

I look up from my hands, wipe at my eyes to clear my vision. Peering around the doorway is a woman in funeral garb and long straight hair dyed a deep shade of blue, an anxious expression on her face. If it wasn’t for the hair job, I’m guessing she was late thirties, early forties, has that soccer-mom build to her. Older the me, at any rate. I try to look normal. Not like the kind of person who loses it and decks the press. “Can I help you?”

“You’re, uh, you were Alex’s friend then, weren’t you?” Alex? Who’s Alex? The woman looks ready to bolt at any moment. “You are, right? Sorry, I don’t normally make a habit of pestering heroes.”

God, I don’t have it in me right now to be normal, never mind deal with fans. Try to smile, it feels fake, offer a handshake to draw her into the room. It’s a limp pantomime and ends mercifully quickly. “Just Ortega is fine. I don’t believe we’ve met…?”

“Chelsea Becker.” She says as we let our hands drop. That gets my attention. No way that’s a coincidence. You never talked about your family, no matter how many times I tried to get you to open up. Hardly the only fortress you kept locked down tight, but here was someone who might open a gate.

I straighten up in my chair, examining Chelsea with renewed interest. There is a slight resemblance, I guess, with the more angular, almost boyish features, but nothing definitive, nothing I could point to say, ‘a-ha.' So instead I start with a “So you knew…?”

“Alex, or um, ‘Sidestep,’ I guess?” Chelsea says, then hesitates before adding, “but maybe sh- they used a different name with you?” A tiredness seeps into her voice. “That would be just like them.” She steps around a box of church candles, rests her hands on the minister’s desk. “They hoarded names like some women hoard jewelry.”

There’s a pain in my chest, I have to force myself to unclench my hands, keep my arms from tensing up. Practice a calming exercise. Stay smooth. I’ll never live it down if a stray spark of static burns down a church. “Yeah, I–” I have to swallow the words first, “–I was Alex’s friend. I’m sorry, she never mentioned…?”

“Oh, I’d be shocked if she had,” Chelsea doesn’t laugh, just forces a small smile as she pushes some papers aside to sit on top of the desk, letting her feet dangle. “If you knew Alex, you know trying to get her to talk about herself was worse than pulling teeth. Never when you wanted, and when she did, always in tears.”

“She was a private woman.” I say in agreement. It feels like a safe enough statement.

“We hadn’t talked in years anyway.” Chelsea says, not hiding the bitterness in her voice. “We had a big fight about the whole vigilante thing.”

I don’t say anything, I don’t think I need to, thank God. Just listen as this stranger pours her heart out about you. She’s another hurting woman looking for a confessional, and Marshal Charge is never off-duty.

“I have no idea where she came from. Just one day, I’m suddenly watching out for this stick of a thing too proud- no, I think, too afraid to accept help.” Chelsea lets out a long shaky breath, and tilts her head to look me with red, puffy eyes. “Had to keep tricking her into thinking she was helping me rather the other way around. Wasn’t easy.” She gives a brittle smile.

I find myself returning her smile with an exhausted one of mine own. “Misdirection was definitely the name of the game.” I say. “In more ways than one.”

“She had this whole fantasy about making a difference and I–” Her voice hitches. “I told her. I warned her; she couldn’t afford mods and she wasn’t a boost. She was going to throw her life away for nothing.” She balls her hands into fists as she talks. “It was insane idea and she was an idiot who was going to get herself killed.”

“A lot of people owe her their lives,” I gently counter, saying it as much for myself as for her. I should follow the script, put a hand on hers, or her knee, or her shoulder or something. Say some gentle meaningless comforter. Instead I’m trying to process what she’s saying, how it all fits together in the ‘Ariadne Becker’ puzzle box.

Chelsea bangs her fist against the side of the desk. “I know that, God damnit. Everyone knows about the damn Nanosurge. I followed every damn report I could. I just wish–“

“That it wasn’t the last thing you said to her.” I finish. The cold comfort of the script finally coming to me. It’s nothing I haven’t had to say a dozen too many times before, and it feels robotic, inadequate, every time.

“The last time I saw her was right after her first big fight in costume. I told her I was leaving Los Diablos to take a job in Atlanta.” Chelsea bangs the desk again, face twisted in anguish, or guilt, or both. “I couldn’t afford to turn it down. It was just a bad coincidence. But… I don’t think she took it that way. She was always so scared, so paranoid, despite everything. I’d have taken her with me if I could have.”

*******************************************

Ortega pauses in mid-sentence, then shakes her head. “Do you know a… Chelsea Becker?” She asks, holding her breath.

A dozen different scenarios run through your head, all of them terrify and paralyze you. “I mean, those are both pretty common names,” you say cautiously, “why?”

“Someone I met at the funeral.” Ortega’s words make you want to sink into the earth, run into the sea. Do anything to get out of this conversation. “Ariadne…” Ortega continues, trepidation in her voice. She’s either oblivious to what’s going on in your head or pushing ahead without mercy. "Is she your mom?”

You blink.

You can’t help it. You start laughing.

Doubled over and clutching your sides. You can’t see straight. Julia calls out, alarmed, and she grabs you by the shoulders before you can fall onto the rocks. “Ariadne!” She taps you lightly on the face. You have to blink the water out of your eyes.

“My mom? You thought she was my mother!?” You repeat, incredulous. No point playing coy after that outburst. You struggle to get a grip on yourself, dig your fingers into Julia’s arms instead. “What did you tell her?”

“I just admitted I knew you, that’s all.” Julia raises her voice, defensive, confused.

“Why was she even there?” You ask, your fascination burning through the absurdity now. There’s nothing Chelsea could possibly know about you that would endanger you now, but it’s never good to get blindsided like this. Past lives, alternate lives, all crashing into each other behind your back. Fuck, what a mess.

Julia gives you a pained look, “It was your funeral, Ariadne. She flew in from Atlanta for it.”

That gets a pang in your chest. You don’t understand it. Stare up at the cloudless sky, the circling seagulls. They don’t have any answers either, brainless feathery assholes. “Ortega, I swear I’m telling the truth, she’s not and i quote, my “mom.” wow, you almost killed me with that.” Of course she’s not, what on earth happened between the two of them to give Julia that impression? Why would she have shown up at all? “Why would she do that?” You whisper, humor giving away to bewilderment.

“She cared about you, of course she came.” Julia insists.

“No she didn’t, you senile old woman. Why would she?” you snap back. You let go of Ortega, try to disentangle yourself from her arms and stand back up again. “Look, you want the truth? Chelsea and I were on the same bus to Los Diablos, like, fourteen years ago.” You shrug, trying to make it seem like no big deal, to play it off. “We ran into each other maybe a few times afterwards, I guess? She was just another busybody who never left well-enough alone. And then one day she did up and leave and that was that. Sound familiar to you?” That’s not a fair barb and you know it. You pull away from her, eager to put some distance between the two of you. You don’t want to see her reaction to that. Power-walk down that beach, restless, aimless. Pull yourself together, remember you’re among enemies: always.

Ortega follows behind, dogging your steps. Never taking the hint, or maybe taking it too well? The problem with lying so regularly is that when it comes time to tell the truth, how can you prove it?

“And your last name?” She asks.

You turn around to face her. “Cosmic coincidence.” You lie, staring her in the eye. Is this the closest either of you have come to openly acknowledging ‘Ariadne Becker’ is a name you made up? You don’t know how to feel about that; how to feel about a lot of things right now.

Ortega doesn’t back down. “I think you should know… she was proud of you.”

You resume walking, put distance between the two of you. “She was proud of an imaginary dead woman then.” You spit out. You hunch your shoulders, pull your shawl up over your chin

Ortega grabs your shoulder from behind as she catches up to you. She slides her hand down following the form of your arm under the shawl. “Stop it.”

You stand there, not looking at her. “Stop what?”

“Stop with the brooding hero routine.”

“Well, I’m no hero, so wish granted.” You should push her away, shrug her off. You want to scream at her. She’s being an idiot. Why does she care about this? Why dig up even more corpses? It’s going to kill her. Why did you come here? Why did you answer her phone call? Why do you keep letting her in?

Ortega pulls at you, hard, forcing you to turn around or be knocked over. She glares at you, and you shrink away from it, from her. “Who stopped the Nanosurge? She demands.

“That’s not–“

“Who’s pulled my ass out of the fire over and over?”

“I was just–“

“Who did an emergency repair so I didn’t electrocute myself in Mexico?”

“I couldn’t just–“

“Who stayed up with me all night after every bad break up?”

You stay quiet.

“Who stayed at my Mamá’s house with us every holiday?”

You can’t look at her.

“Who came to visit me in the hospital after the Gala?”

“…that was a mistake.” You say, voice weak.

“Oh? It was a mistake, was it?” Ortega asks, an edge to her voice. “Were you lying then? Or are you lying now?”

You don’t have a response to that. You need to get out of her grip. You need to get out of here.

“Was that kiss in the elevator a mistake? Or the ones on this beach? What about all the rest of them?”

You want to die. To escape. To not be here right now having this conversation.

“Well, Ariadne Becker, which is it?”

You flinch under the weight she puts on your last name. “…I don’t know.”

There’s a hand on your face, and then Ortega is kissing you. You freeze, every instinct screaming at you to run, and then her other hand wraps around you and tell your instincts to take a hike, and kiss Julia back. It’s too hot for this, so you compromise. You unfasten your broach with one hand and shrug off your shawl onto the rocks before reaching up to run a hand through her hair.

Her teeth catch your lip in the quick pause for breath and then the two of you are fighting to push tongues past each other and it’s gross and you are terrible at it and you keep hitting your noses like drunk jousters and you have no idea what you’re doing while her hands run up your body and you cling to hers as if she’s a life preserver.

It’s the shame of the twinge between your legs that finally pulls you out of it enough to disengage. You pull away from her, smoothing down your shirt, making sure nothing rode up. Cast a quick mental check for any possible witnesses. None, save the seagulls, and honestly? Fuck those guys.

Julia looks at you, face flush, mouth slightly agape. Your heart aches at the sight of it. You don’t want to think about what you look like. You both stand there, in an awkward, flushed silence.

Finally, Julia says, “accept that your mom is proud of you, you pendeja.”

You stare at her. ��W-what?”

“You heard me.”

Is this what having a stroke is like? Did you die this morning and no one told you? Are you in hell right now? “Did– did you just… make out with me, to– to– to– to– win an argument about my, my…” you choke on the word, pound your fist against Julia’s shoulder. “Damnit, she’s not my mom! Fucking hell! Shit!”

“She cried for you like one.” Julia’s hand is back on your arm, just firm enough to making running difficult. “Don’t throw those feelings away.”

Your brain is short circuiting. Steel’s going to show up in clown make-up and then you’ll wake up screaming again. “I can’t believe you made out with me to win an argument about my mom.” You whisper, your voice strained, throat tight.

Julia’s expression softens a little, finally. Mercifully. “What can I say?” That old familiar grin slips back onto her face, so smug, so punchable. You want to kiss her again. “I have a unique skillset.”

#fallen hero: rebirth #fallen hero fanfic #fanfiction #fhr #wlw fanfic #moms are important #mc #ortega #fhr/ariadne #tw: some suicidal thoughts #but not too many i hope #found family #trans character

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scarletraven1001 · 6 years

Text

Academia! - Chapter 2

Summary: Bulma begins adjusting to her new school, and Vegeta is inexplicably annoyed by absolutely everything about her. However, when the blue-haired girl gets herself in a bit of a bind, he finds himself jumping to the rescue.

A Vegebul high school AU, inspired by the lovely fanart of @okebtrash!

Previous Chapter: 1

Also on Ao3.

8-8-8-8-8

Note: Hello! Sorry for taking so long with this update. My job has been terrible to my fanfic-life lately, but this story (because of all the amazing art OMG) has been screaming in my head, so I really needed to write it!

I hope you all enjoy this! Feedback would be very much appreciated.

8-8-8-8-8

Chapter 2: The Prefect

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Everything she did made him angry.

Everything.

From his usual perch at the edge of a small balcony, Vegeta watched the blue-haired succubus as she flounced around the school grounds, her infuriatingly short skirt flitting annoyingly around her upper thighs.

Her insipid, pointless half-ponytail – bound by a ridiculous rubber ornament that looked like two tiny balls – bounced on the side of her head along with her steps as she waved at Kakarot and his woman, and she promptly sat down with the usual pair like an awkward third wheel on a motorbike.

The woman – he refused to even think about her name – began to chat animatedly with the other girl while Kakarot stuffed his face like a baboon.

Oh, how he hated her.

It was not even as if the woman did anything explicitly wrong. She just got on his nerves, in a strange way that he could not quite comprehend.

She was trouble. But he did not know why.

And Vegeta, the elite prefect, hated being uninformed.

It was easier to hate her, than to keep wondering why his eyes always strayed to her whenever she was in the vicinity, or why the sound of her screeching, annoying voice made him turn to her like a compass facing the north.

He really, really hated her.

8-8-8-8-8

“No way! Seriously?” Bulma asked, her chopsticks freezing on their way towards her mouth, the bit of teriyaki chicken dangling as it perched before her slackened jaw.

“Seriously!” Chichi laughed while Goku, her boyfriend, grinned with a nod, unable to speak around the sandwich he was chomping on.

“Goku, I can’t believe you punched her out of a fighting ring!” Bulma laughed, before she finally resumed eating, eying the grinning couple before her.

“It was a karate match!” he defended. “My grandpa always told me to never hit girls, but I needed to hit Chichi so I could win and get to fight the reigning champion!”

Chichi just laughed. “Yes, and so I lost to him that day, but I didn’t really mind, because he asked me out afterwards. Win-win!”

Goku grinned. “I told her I’d treat her to lunch because I hit her. And after that, we just kind of hung out together.”

“And now he’s my boyfrieeend,” Chichi sang dreamily.

“I still don’t know what that means-”

Bulma shook her head with a laugh while Chichi just laid more food out onto Goku’s bento box.

A sudden breeze off to her right made her compulsively look up, and as she did, her eyes strayed up onto a nearby balcony, where she found a pair of intense, narrow eyes looking condescendingly down at her.

Their eyes met, and as she hesitantly lifted her hand up to wave at him, he stiffened, quickly turning away and disappearing from her sight.

“What a strange guy,” she thought.

“Neh, Bulma-chan?”

Bulma turned back to Chichi, who was smiling as she held out another plate of tiny pork dumplings.

With a wide grin, she took a couple of pieces for herself, savoring Chichi’s incredible cooking.

If it was true that the best way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, then the dark-haired martial artist was thoroughly bulldozing her way through to Goku’s, whether he understood it or not.

“Are you alright?” Chichi asked, and it was only then that Bulma realized that her chopsticks had paused on their way to her mouth, yet again.

“Oh, yes! Yes, sorry,” Bulma said sheepishly.

Goku seemed unconvinced though, as he stopped chewing for a few moments. “Are you sure? You look a bit upset.”

Bulma smiled. “Well, not really upset, per se… Just…” she hesitated. “Do you guys know anything about Vegeta?”

Chichi blinked. “The prefect?”

Bulma nodded, while Goku brightened.

“Yeah! Vegeta’s awesome! He’s my biggest martial arts rival, and my best buddy,” he said.

Chichi rolled her eyes. “Goku, he hates you.”

“He does not,” Goku said. “He’s just a bit mean-looking sometimes.”

“Sometimes?!”

Bulma coughed slightly. “So, he really isn’t very… erm… friendly, huh?”

“He hates everyone-”

“He’s just misunderstood, Chichi-”

Bulma’s mind wandered as the two started bickering, making a few realizations.

One: Vegeta was apparently indifferent to almost everyone.

Two: He was a martial artist, and for some reason, Goku liked him.

Three: If he was always the way he appeared, then Bulma had a very slim chance of befriending him.

She had never been around people her age, always being stuck around much-older scientists in Capsule Corp’s research and development team. Fellow teens were an enigma that Bulma had not yet managed to study and completely comprehend.

Being the genius that she was, though, she knew that teenagers are strange, hormonal people, and mood swings were a norm rather than an anomaly.

Some just disliked you for no reason, and perhaps, Vegeta was such a case. In fact, he seemed to strongly dislike her.

She knew that it shouldn’t really bother her, since she had already made quite a few good friends during her first two weeks in Shenron High. Her mother had warned her that it was impossible to make everyone like you in high school, and Bulma should be content with being well-liked as of then.

However, she found that a part of her refused to accept that Vegeta just didn’t seem to be all that fond of her.

It didn’t really make sense to her. It wasn’t as if he was special.

But somehow, a strange little thrumming, from deep in the bottom of her gut, just insisted that yes, he was.

Bulma was nothing if not a scientist, and she knew that she would not rest until she fully understood the reasons, the issues surrounding the animosity that Vegeta displayed towards her.

Nodding to herself, Bulma decided: She was going to get to the bottom of this.

She had no idea how, but she will.

But first…

“Ne, Chichi?” she called. “May I have some more of those dumplings?”

8-8-8-8-8

“Alright, class,” the teacher spoke, a stern look on her face as she assessed each student with a tick in her eye.

Vegeta gulped, self-consciously adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose when the teacher’s gaze landed on him.

Ms. Uranai was a hard sell, a very old woman who seemed to have used up all her youth teaching delinquent high-schoolers.

She was bordering on ancient, and Vegeta would not have been surprised if she had actually lived through the History lessons that she gave the class.

“I am rather disappointed in you all,” Uranai said. “This exam was not that difficult, and yet, only two people got high marks. Two! You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

The whole class sat unmoving while the old educator narrowed her eyes at them, holding out a folder.

“All these papers in this folder, have unacceptable marks,” she said, putting the folder down on her desk with a look akin to disgust. “I will leave them here. Do what you want with your own results.”

Nobody dared even blink while Ms. Uranai turned, retrieving two sheets from her desk. “These two passed. More than passed, honestly. And I shall be announcing only these.”

Vegeta straightened. He was sure that his paper was there…

“Mr. Ouji,” Uranai called, much to his relief. “Come and take your exam please. Ninety-eight percent.”

He heard a few soft, hesitant applauses from the edges of the classroom as he stood up to get his test.

Ninety-eight? Who could ever top that?

Uranai handed the paper to him, before her eyes suddenly brightened as she looked down at the remaining sheet in her hand.

“And this! This one almost erases my disappointment with the rest of you. Almost,” Uranai said, suddenly beaming. “Ms. Briefs, our new student, come and take your exam.”

Vegeta barely hid the snarl that rose from his lips at the sound of the blue-haired little witch’s name, and he turned, trying not to glare at her, as she shifted in her chair a few seats away from his.

A couple of other hesitant claps, as Bulma stood with a gulp, looking almost scared of the exam as she walked forward.

Vegeta watched as the girl finally held her exam up to see her results, and as she looked at it, her already large blue eyes turned huge in her apparent disbelief.

Uranai grinned widely, as Vegeta stiffened in denial.

Could it be…?

“One-hundred percent. Congratulations, Ms. Briefs.”

The class erupted into surprised applause then, and Bulma looked up, a huge smile on her face as she looked around at everyone.

Vegeta looked around in distaste, lifting his hands to clap reluctantly, even though he was seething.

Kakarot actually whooped, the idiot, and Chichi looked so delighted, it was sickening.

He looked back at Bulma, who was positively preening.

He narrowed his eyes in irritation, unabashedly meeting her gaze when it landed on him.

Her smile dimmed slightly, before she turned away to smile at the other people in class.

How… dare she…

How dare she best him.

8-8-8-8-8

She was so happy, she could float.

Well, maybe not float, but she could probably build a small copter to help her fly.

Her first exam in high school, and she was the only one to receive full marks.

This ought to make her mother happy.

Her father, not so much.

Dr. Briefs had been entirely against her going to regular school.

He would probably just sigh, and Bulma could practically hear him now…

“Bulma, you are a certified genius. Of course, you would get full marks. You could probably give your teacher an exam.”

She huffed, mentally sticking her tongue out at her father.

She walked slowly towards the corner where she knew her driver awaited her. She had given him explicit instructions to not move a single inch closer to the school than the tree that she had picked for him to wait beside.

She wanted the full ‘school experience’.

Classmates, a uniform, the walk home…

Her father had emphatically put his foot down regarding her request to walk all the way home.

With a bounce in her step, she carried her bag, happily humming a tune.

She was just about to turn the corner that would make the car visible to her when a small ball bounced up from the edges of the trees that lined the sidewalk.

Intrigued, she stooped down, her short skirt hiking up her bum as she picked the ball up.

“Wow, what a sight, ain’t it, fellas?”

She straightened in surprise, tugging her skirt down as she dropped the ball and turned around, only to find a group of four boys, narrow eyes leering at her from a few meters away.

They were all wearing green uniforms, and Bulma recognized it as the ones worn by another school on the opposite side of town.

“May I help you?” she asked stiffly, taking a small step back when the boys moved forward.

“We heard that a pretty new girl had started in Shenron,” the guy in the middle of the group said, his large eyes raking shamelessly over her body.

Bulma frowned. “Well, I am pretty, alright. You’ve seen me now. Satisfied?”

Another stepped forward. “Not really. See, just looking isn’t always enough, is it?”

Bulma shuddered, small tendrils of fright beginning to zip up her spine.

She had never before been in such a situation.

She was alone in the street, just a few scant meters away from her driver, but they were still a few meters too far.

Her driver would be sitting in the car, and even if she screamed, she was certain that he wouldn’t hear.

She was stuck, facing off against four perverts who were all twice her size –

“What the hell are you losers doing here?”

All heads turned towards the low growl, and Bulma felt an elated sort of thrill go through her while a small gasp escaped her lips.

His flame-shaped hair was unmistakable, and his narrow eyes were in furious slits as he regarded the thugs who were terrorizing her.

“Vegeta!” she cried out in relief, and as he turned to look at her, Bulma noticed a few things that seemed odd.

He was, on the outside, still the same stern boy who watched over the school with the eyes of a hawk, the boy who snarled at students running in the halls or holding hands in the library.

Yet…

Something about the way he carried himself as he stood before the bullies was not the same, and it took Bulma a few moments to begin to understand the changes.

He was not wearing his glasses, and without the glare of the specs, his eyes looked ominous, sharp, far more intense than she could ever remember them being.

His navy blue uniform was not as prim as it was at school, leaving a few buttons opened and exposing a rather rumpled white shirt underneath.

Even his stance was different, just a bit jauntier than usual, his weight mostly on his left leg, while his arms crossed threateningly before his chest.

Vegeta was not tall, not by a long shot, but as she looked at him, he appeared so impossibly imposing, and she surmised that it was the looseness of his posture that just made him seem a lot wider, as if he was ready and rearing for a brawl.

It also did not escape her notice that the four boys had stilled, their body language screaming more than just a bit of discomfort, and she realized, much to her delight, that these boys were afraid of him.

Together, those men could possibly be nearly eight times Vegeta’s body weight, but they were afraid of Vegeta.

Vegeta smirked, before he spoke again.

“Well? What are you doing in my district? And just you four?” he sneered. “Is Ginyu still in the hospital from my beat-down last week?”

The shortest one stepped forward, hands in fists at his sides, but he was stopped by the tallest man with a hand on his shoulder.

“No, Guldo,” he said.

“But Recoome-”

“No,” he repeated, his voice overflowing with contempt. “We can’t take him. Not without Ginyu.”

“Damn right, you cannot. And even with Ginyu, I dare you to try,” Vegeta said. “Get the fuck out of here, and don’t ever think of bothering my classmates again.”

“Keh,” the boy apparently called Guldo said. “What’s the matter, Prince? Are we encroaching on your property? What do you think, Burter?”

A rather tall one with a wide forehead spoke up. “I think the Prince is looking after this girl.”

“Tch,” Vegeta spat. “I care nothing for her. But, as a student of Shenron, she is under my watch. If you know what is good for you, you will leave now, before I lose my patience with you for daring to speak to one of my people.”

Bulma watched as the four boys angrily, mutinously turned, and Vegeta stood, glaring after them until they got into a large white SUV.

They sped away, but not before a few middle fingers were raised towards her dark-haired classmate, who raised both fists back in a demented sort of salute.

When they were all out of sight, Bulma finally let out the breath that she had been holding.

She turned to Vegeta with a grateful smile, but was not expecting to see him striding purposefully towards her, brows furrowed low over his eyes.

“You are unharmed, yes?” he asked as he reached her, his gaze quickly assessing her while she nodded.

“Yes. Thanks to you,” she answered. “I’m so glad you happened to be close by!”

“Tch,” he said again. “You are stupid for walking alone all this way, in the first place.”

“I am not-”

“You are,” he growled. “You have a driver waiting for you just beyond those trees. Why don’t you just have him pick you up from the school gate?”

She startled when Vegeta moved past her, walking towards the place where the car was parked.

Bulma shook herself free from her disbelief for a second before she jogged to catch up, walking beside him as he appeared to be leading her towards her car.

“I just… I wanted to know what it’s like to walk from school,” she said, giggling slightly. “I see it on TV all the time, and I wanted to try it.”

“Is this all just some game to you?” he asked snidely. “An experiment? An immersion activity?”

“Vege-”

“I have read up on you,” he continued. “You are a prodigy. A genius. You do not really need to go to school.”

She looked down, staring at the brown leather of her shoes in chagrin.

“I just wanted to know what it’s like to be… normal. Is that really so bad?”

He paused, and Bulma looked back at him as he stood just a pace behind her.

Vegeta looked thoughtful, melancholy…

“No. It is not,” he said after a beat. “Yet, you need to be careful. Just because you are pretending to be normal, as you say, does not mean that you are.”

He sounded so sure, almost condescending, and Bulma bristled. “What would you know?”

His smirk was slow, mocking. “More than you would think.”

He started walking again, and before Bulma knew it, they were standing in clear view of her car, where she could see her clueless driver napping in the driver’s seat.

She turned to Vegeta again, and though he had gotten on her nerves for a moment, she resolved to forget about the slight and focus more on the fact that he had actually stood up for her.

“Ne, Vegeta,” she said. “I really am grateful. Thank you for your help back there.”

He simply waved her off, and with a last smile at him, she turned to walk to her car.

She had almost gotten in when she turned back, brow raised.

“Say, would you like a ride home?” she asked.

His house was probably close by. After all, if he was there, didn’t that mean that his house was in the same direction where she was going?

He shook his head, then began walking back in the opposite direction.

She shrugged, before she opened the door and stepped into the car.

It was not until several minutes later that she began to wonder…

If his house was in the opposite direction… what had Vegeta been doing there?

8-8-8-8-8

Vegeta felt his brow twitch as he walked back towards the school.

He did not know what had possessed him to trail after Bulma that afternoon, but he supposed that he was glad that he did.

It was very unlikely that Ginyu’s boys would have let her go as completely unscathed as she had gone, if he had not been there.

He chose to focus on how Bulma was safe, thanks to his strange lapse in sense, rather than dwell on why he had followed her in the first place.

Those thoughts were much, much easier to deal with.

8-8-8-8-8

To be continued…

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#vegebul #vegebul fanfic #vegebul fanfiction #inspired by fanart #high school au #db au #dragon ball au #vegebul au #alternate universe #db fanfic #vegeta #bulma #dragon ball #okebtrash #romance #comedy #romcom #academia db fic #scarletraven fanfiction

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frenchy-and-the-sea · 6 years

Text

SC - Shore Leave

A bit of writing that I did a while back that probably won’t get properly finished but had a good stopping point about halfway through. Figured I’d share it while I was looking at it! Enjoy!

931 words, set in a nebulous sort of “after” of the first big arc of the story.

“If you’ve a fouler mood, I’ve certainly never seen it.”

Alex glanced up from the letter she was scrawling to find Tahir leaned against the doorway of her cabin, his arms folded over his chest.

“You shall meet it presently,” she said, “unless you would prefer to shut the god damned door, hey?”

Tahir snorted, but dutifully leaned forward, just far enough to kick the door shut behind him. She heard the faint thuds of his boots crossing to her, and kept her eyes down towards the words she was only half paying attention to. His shadow fell across her desk, and she did not look up.

“Davin tells me you’ve been like this all day,” he said, at some length.

“Davin should have a whole watch to keep him busy,” Alex replied, with a dismissive wave towards the door. “If that is not enough for him, I can certainly find him more suitable work elsewhere. Up on the yards, perhaps, or in the bilge, or - ”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

A hand suddenly appeared in Alex’s vision, too quickly for her to stop it from snatching the quill out of her fingers. She moved to give chase anyway, but Tahir planted a palm square on the desk beside her and leaned down, blocking her bodily into her seat.

“You,” he said, jabbing the feathered end towards her like a saber, “need a break. You’ve been miserable and half-mad with worry for near a week now. The crew’s sick of it. I’m sick of it. So you and I are going ashore, and we’re not coming back until you’re content as a baby at the teat, understand?”

Alex stared at the tip of the feather hovering scant inches from her face for one long, silent moment. Then she eased back into her chair, sneering.

“And that will fix everything, will it?” she asked, too sweetly. “A little drinking and whoring and suddenly I’m back to a level of insufferable you can tolerate?”

“I never said -”

“You didn’t have to.” She pushed up out of her chair with such a force that she nearly toppled it, and drew herself up to her full height; still a head shorter than Tahir, to be sure, but at least more than sitting down, and high enough that she could jab a finger at him this time. “You wouldn’t so much as touch this position, Tahir. I did. And if my being intolerable is what keeps us all from being gutted like pigs in our sleep - or worse - then for our sake, I think you lot ought to be able to suffer it!”

Tahir blew out a sigh from somewhere deep in his chest and leaned back away from her, dropping the quill and baring his palms in a gesture of surrender.

“I see you’re resigned to this mood, then,” he growled, then turned away from the desk and retreated out of sight. Alex snorted as she watched him go, then turned back towards her desk and dragged her chair towards her again.

Behind her, the lid of her sea chest creaked open.

She wheeled around in her seat just in time to catch Tahir stepping away from it, carrying something made of a thick, dark fabric under his arm; her hat, slightly crumpled from its stay under lock and key. He looked up, and barely even tried to cover his smirk. “Apologies, Alex,” he said, sounding remarkably like he was not apologetic at all, “but you leave me no choice. I am temporarily suspending your captaincy.”

“You what - ”

But he was already striding out of her cabin door, leaving her with no other option but to push up from her chair and follow him out into the night.

He was still a few paces ahead when she shouldered out of her cabin, already turned back to squint up at the quarterdeck above her.

“Davin!”

A mess of dark hair appeared at the rail above Alex’s head before she could protest, peering down through the darkness. “Aye?”

“Look smartly, lad. You’re acting captain until Alex and I return from a little shore leave.” He tossed the hat he was holding up without waiting for an answer. To his credit, Davin only fumbled it once, and managed to scrape together enough wherewithal to shoot Alex a properly dumbfounded look as Tahir went on.

“I want to come back to a ship in one piece, understand? Don’t sink her, don’t take her out of the harbor. And don’t let anyone but crew on board. Anyone. Including crew’s pleasant company, no matter how they whine. Go ahead and make your brother’s life hell for the next few hours, though. Blessings on that.”

At the mere mention of lauding superiority over his brother, any chance of Davin questioning his orders evaporated like mist in the morning sun. His face split into a grin - the kind that Alex had sworn up and down she would try to avoid at all costs - and he crammed the hat down onto his head with a crude salute from his good arm.

“By your leave,” he said, dropping into an exaggerated bow before striding over the deck and disappearing down into the stairwell below.

Tahir slung an arm around Alex’s shoulders and reeled her into a vice grip at his side, his face the picture of gleeful innocence.

“I rather liked my ship floating,” she growled, trying and failing to shrug him off. Tahir just smirked.

“Not really your ship,” he pointed out. “Never in price, and currently, not in power. Now step lively. We’re going to find a distraction even if it kills you.”

#my writing #original fiction #seven cities #oc crap #my ocs #alex sheffield #tahir #there's a whole bit after this that I intended to write for fun but ehhhh #i don't think it'll happen and I liked how this one came out #seven cities writing

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a-room-with-a-mew · 5 years

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SCOOP by Evelyn Waugh

‘The funniest novel ever written about journalism’… I don’t know; is it just me or does this not really sell it? Is journalism a natural place we go to for laughs? I mean.. Yeah, there are comic-features writers, and journos who write books and scripts and maybe even do stand up. But in terms of fiction, of stories, I’d almost always think of journalism as high drama, a noble pursuit like in All the President’s Men or Superman. Waugh is interested in hackism. Okay he is indulging in a little self-parody here, as a writer himself, but for quite a time, this book feels like a long in-joke, a nudge to a colleague. While it works well as a series of jokes, sketches, and odd-ball characters in crazy situations, the fact that this is a novel means that we are invited to rest our feet upon the rocky conceit of a war in a far-off, fictional foreign land, which may or may not reflect a real war/ place. And additionally, as the place and people aren’t real, only ‘inspired by’, Waugh can say whatever he bally likes about them with impunity. A bit like The Life of Brian, only well – not as funny! Tall order though of course.

Let’s dive in. I managed to stick with and read SCOOP on my third attempt after owning the novel for years. Like a lot of books, the cover mystifies. Who are these? Mrs Stitch presumably? There’s only two watery female characters in the book so must be her. She doesn’t figure much so the cynic in me thinks the publishers are attempting to glam up the story.. With her fur and hat and the moody black and white. Reminds me of an edition of Brideshead I saw once in a shop – the cover had a cartoon slinky flapper girl – the hat, the stole, elbow-length gloves, cigarette holder, diamonds and whatnot. Missing the point a bit I think! So! Here we have two snoots getting on a plane. This doesn’t happen in the book. Natch.

Story

Likely the appeal or not of this story will depend upon whether you like action / adventure stories and seek thrills and fantastic places and daring endeavours. Of course you do! Well, I don’t. Or at least – I don’t tend to read them. Give me Indiana Jones on the big screen – but I don’t know if I’d read Alexander Fleming or the da Vinci Code (again). In the books I read, people tend to sit around thinking, or drive thinking, or potter around the kitchen, thinking, or fall in love but not realize it or declare it, or holiday and develop the self, but very subtly, or befall intensely personal disasters, make human connexions that you have to squint to see.

Suffice to say I loved, say, A Handful of Dust to distraction. Brilliant book. What actually happened? What was the plot? Ahm… Well.. Hard to describe, the slow, tragic dissolution of a marriage. That makes it sound boring. It isn’t!! SCOOP kind of is, and yet the action doesn’t let up for a paragraph.

Waugh – probably joyfully – breaks the golden rule of writing by NOT introducing his main character in the first page / chapter. Tries to fox us, he does. Very clever – in fact the whole book is, very clever: maybe that’s why it left me behind in the dust. Okay, so though some administrative cock-up, our hero, William Boot - a very sheltered country-squire sort who generally never leaves his decaying mansion full of ancient relatives – he’s never described physically, but go ahead and imagine the plus-fours, Norfolk jacket, pristine boots, hunting hat, moustache - finds himself sent, as a foreign correspondent, to a war-torn country of which he has never heard. Promising premise.

What follows is William’s whirlwind adventure of being summoned to his new post, preparing to go to Africa, complete with the bare essentials - collapsible boat and hockey-sticks and back-street passports. Everything is charged back to the paper – The Beast – and so there is a real consumer-fetish going on here too! As William is one of those old-fashioned toffs who own great estates but are somehow stony broke.

Much of the novel is taken up with travelling – to this fabled Ishmaelia, which was initially founded by an American family called the Jacksons, and various in-fighting and coups have taken place within the dynasty for generations. Now they’re out of power, and socialism is threatening to sneak in via the Russians. I do believe? And there’s much interest in this particular country from other well-to-do nations. Of course this doesn’t come about for a while, and for most of the mission, William wanders around hearing snippets and spending the paper’s money. Is Waugh indulging in a little revenge fantasy? William is incapable as a journalist, but just happens to be in the right place at the right time and know the right people, and comes through with the climactic glory of the story – not the exposure of the truth, but a good story with lots of COLOUR.

Characterization

Okay well, as I’ve mentioned somewhere, Waugh is not a writer whose strongest suit is characterization – it’s his writing, wording that shines, and we’ll get to that in a minute. And yet the characters are the reason we generally love a story, no? Or at least – if you are interested in the human psyche, the intricacies of human relations, the effect of surroundings upon the humans therein. But for Waugh, his love is words and the ways he can string them beautifully: he sees the novel "not as an investigation of character, but as an exercise in the use of language.” An exercise! Like you do at school.

William Boot, the protagonist, is so wan and inconsequential that his mistaken namesake is introduced first, and more memorably. He reminds me of Paul Pennyfeather from Decline and Fall – he is only there to go along with the plot, adding nothing to it with his own input, but only to observe the zany characters around him. And Paul annoyed me so much! The way the others were breaking curfew in college, and Paul blandly took the blame without a fight. And he floats through the rest of it. Although William differs from Paul in one way – though William is rather pushed into this job, and takes the glamour and action in his stride, he retains a strong and immovable affection for his dreary old homestead, and that is the true love of the story – his affection for the country-side and desire to walk “feather-footed through the plashy fen.” William says no – and he’s such a blah character that it truly surprises and delights when he does.

At one stage he purports to be in love with a woman – she does him out of a load of money and a boat, in which he helps her and her husband escape. It’s not as noble as it sounds! Each and every character in this story is out for themselves. If they can’t see past their nose, why ought we invest?

SCOOP has memorable caricatures – larger-than-life, humorous, and distinctive, but they are there to portray ideas, not to have their own agency and accountability and foibles. They run around building and holding in place Waugh’s ideas, they exist to show the deftness of his pen, they are satire, they are text.

Writing

Brilliant as always, and makes the reader wish that Waugh’s themes and characters were as wonderful and satisfying as his prose.

“The immense trees which encircled Boot Magna Hall, shaded its drives and rides, and stood (tastefully disposed at the whim of some forgotten, provincial predecessor at Repton), singly and in groups about the park, had suffered, some from ivy, some from lightening, some from the various malignant disorders that vegetation is heir to, but all principally from old age. Some were supported with trusses and crutches of iron, some were filled with cement; some, even now, in June, could show only a handful of green leaves at their extremities. Sap ran thin and slow; a gutsy night always brought down a litter of dead timber.”

Now who else is going to describe a group of trees so well? Not only are they so very clear to picture, he has given them history, and in doing the history of the house, the family, and possibly the decaying aristocracy itself. I bet the fields are thick with meadowsweet and all!

Waugh has lots of fun with the journalistic jargon; the idea that an article must have news, but to sell, it must have colour – love that term: it must have some literary merit, some artistic verve, really appeal to the reader. Elsewhere William keeps getting increasingly frantic and mysteriously coded cables from the newspaper offices in London, going to despair because he’s not providing any stories he promised and running up enormous bills. Finally he manages: “Please don’t worry quite safe and well in fact rather enjoying things weather improving will cable again if there’s any news Yours Boot.” And later “Nothing much has happened except the president who has been imprisoned in his own palace.” The downplaying is so dry and delightful. I wish I knew what was going on. Maybe that’s the point!

#evelyn waugh #scoop #book review #booklr #books #penguin modern classics #20th century literature

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destiny-smasher · 6 years

Text

Spirit Batteries (Commission)

You can read this on AO3 if you prefer.

A/N: This is a giftfic commission from Twitter user @Porecomesis for Hayley @sakura-rose12 as a birthday gift! It is strongly recommended you have read her webcomic Dame Daffodil as well as played the FREE Life is Strange episode The Awesome Adventures of Captain Spirit. (I take a major liberty from the vague ending of the episode to make this fic work)

The Awesome Adventures of Captain Spirit is a free downloadable side story in the Life is Strange Universe. Dame Daffodil is an original webcomic.

It's strongly recommended you have experienced both before reading this short story.

If you'd like to commission me to write for you, feel free to send me a message! No budget is too small, we can always make something work!

~~~

“You got 'em?!” Her arms were starting to get some rope burn from how taut the whips were around them. “I've-” Alesea grunted out, her footing slipping slightly. She regained it. “I've got them!” She wrapped her mystical whips another loop tighter around her arms, trying her best to dig into the street curb. The black beast that they were attempting to subdue was proving to be an inconvenience. They all were, of course, but Alesea had convinced Charo – er, that is, since Lady Lily had convinced Dame Daffodil – that they ought to try striving toward safer, less destructive resolutions. While that had sounded simple enough in Alesea's head, in practice it was quickly becoming quite a pain, even with the two of them working together. Ales-...Lily had tied the creature with her whips, using two street signs as support to keep the creature from moving – a trick she had self-taught on a football field not long ago. Daffodil had needed some time to deal with the smaller creatures it had spit out. “I feel-” Daffodil zapped one. “-sorta bad-” Zapped another. “-'cause they're kinda cute.” And another. “Cute, perhaps,” Lily panted out. “but...still dangerous!” “Just like someone I know!” said Daffodil with a wide grin and a wink – all the while frying another creature. Lily smirked in spite of their circumstances, her eyes rolling a little in endeared amusement. Lily's gut reaction had been to gather these small beings up rather than outright destroying them – but they had no idea how these beasts functioned yet, and no real means of containing them. Where would they even put them? And how would they have any assurances they could even be contained? The creatures had demonstrated unnatural speed and strength. Yet if they left so many little ones out to roam, who knew what could happen? They could grow – multiply? It would be quite a mess. For the time being, it was unfortunately safer to try and attract their attention, and, well...get rid of them. Keeping their...mother? How did these things work? Well, keeping their parent creature subdued and angry seemed to be keeping the creatures nearby, hostile, yet their small size and scattered formation made them easy for Daffodil to deal with. Lily was getting tired out from keeping the larger creature pinned down, however. With a skip in her step, Daffodil taunted and clapped, drawing the remaining little ones near her, while Lily trembled and burned from the work she was doing. Daffodil airily posed, “Having a partner to help out is making this monster-fighting stuff so much easier, huh?” -zap- “Two flower-powered heads are better than-” “Daffodil,” Lily grunted through clenched teeth, her strength starting to give out. “Yup!” Daffodil squeaked sheepishly, focusing more deliberately on her task. As more small, growling black monsters were getting...killed? They seemed like living creatures, yet...also sort of not? Alesea's mind was filled with moral problems with all of this as it was. But regardless of how Alesea felt about these matters, Lady Lily was still obligated to protect human beings, first and foremost. Her feet had been using a street curb to bolster herself, but her sore legs gave way long enough for her slip a little. That slight slide, however, was exactly the moment the black, multi-legged beast had been waiting for. With Lily's whips slack for a second, the monster wriggled free, its spider-like legs rampaging at its captor in a spiteful charge. Lily stumbled backward from the disconnect, falling over. Her concentration broken, her whips' power faltered. Her heart froze for a moment as the spear-like feet of the monster punctured small craters into the pavement, heading straight for her. Its eyeless face was somehow filled with rage as its mandibles snapped. Lily re-focused her whips, trying to slash them at the beast – anything to mitigate its advance. Minimal effect, a few grazing scratches which barely slowed the monster down. “Alesea!” cried Daffodil with alarm, dashing toward the impending threat and firing off a beam – but the monster was too quick, and her attack instead cut through one of the street signs, sending it toppling over. The smaller creatures took the opportunity to swarm at Daffodil – and while most had been disposed of, enough still remained where their gnawing bites crippled the Dame to her knees to try and blast them off. “I-CHANGED-MY-MIND-THEY'RE-NOT-CUTE!!” Having scrambled to her feet, Lily had second or two to spare before the larger monster reached her. She cracked her whips at its feet, attempting to tangle them up. This somewhat succeeded, but rather than trapping the beast, it merely sent it skidding briefly before its multiple legs regained traction and cut through the whips again. Daffodil, still scraping spider-like biting from her legs, fired off another beam in a panic. This, too, missed its mark, nearly clipping Lily on the way – a gust of air pushed at her in the beam's wake. The monster lunged. Lily pulled her whips back in. But there wasn't enough time. -snap- Lily fell to her back. -snap snap- But...the creature had missed? An odd hissing. The monster was...floating. Right in front of Lily. Thrashing its mandibles in her direction, swiping its sharp legs every which way, yet...stationary in the air. It was pretty strange, all right. And Lily surely had not stopped its advance. But Daffodil, squashing and zapping small creatures off of her, looked just as puzzled. A weird moment of quiet fell over the the lot, and the monster even gave up its struggle. -zap- The beast exploded into black dust with a weak screech as Dame Daffodil finally hit her mark. The suddenness of it threw Lily off guard, another gust of air rushing past her from the destructive blow. A piece of black dust landed where the monster had just been, and a black flower quickly sprouted from its position. Daffodil was scrambling through a small batch of black critters to reach her partner. “You OK?!” Charo cried out, tripping up a bit on the beasties. “Cut it-!” she growled at them, shaking them off. “Alesea?!” “I-I'm all right,” Alesea replied, baffled at what had just happened. “How did you do that?” she asked, pulling her whips back in and ready to squash some more...'bugs?' “Do what?” Daffodil panted, kicking a couple more off of her feet. She zapped one. “Couldn't hit it until you got it to stop moving. Good stuff!” “I didn't...-” Lily noticed how tuckered out Daffodil was, but there were still maybe ten or so of the annoying pests to deal with. The poor girl's legs were all...nibbled. Yikes. Was going to be fun explaining that one to Sel...An impromptu hiking trip gone wrong? Or maybe she'd...fallen on her bike? Charo...didn't have a bike. Or maybe-? Alesea then realized that the remaining monsters were...also floating, now. Slowly being shoved together into a black, fuzzy ball. “Whoa,” Daffodil murmured in awe. “You get a new power already? ¡Guauu~!” She was pressing her wrists to her cheeks, glowing a smile of admiration at Lily, who...wasn't doing anything. “I-...It's not...-” Lily gestured a confused hand at the blob of creatures, writhing around one another and emitting their strange hissing squeaks. “My Lady's the best,” Charo smugly cited, snapping a finger at Alesea with one hand, while zapping the beasties to dust with the other. “Teamwork makes the dreamw-” “Why do you keep doing that?” Lily and Daffodil both froze at this, spoken from somewhere to their side. There was...a boy there, emerging from a payphone booth, his hand extended toward them. He sighed, letting his hand drop. He was...dressed in spray-painted cardboard, a cape, and a face-painted mask of blue. Couldn't have been much older than ten, if even that. As he approached them, he dejectedly pointed out, “Heroes aren't s'pposed to kill people...” Lily felt her face flush at this, and she glanced at Daffodil nervously. “Th-Those weren't people,” Daffodil sheepishly defended. Slamming her fists on her hips, she said with a prim nod, “Those were monsters. We-...We're saving people.” “But aren't you super heroes?” the boy asked. “I thought you don't kill - that's what makes you super.” The color probably drained from the heroines' faces as they offered squeamish smiles at that naive idea.

“We don't...hurt people,” Daffodil pointed out, with a shrug. A shrug?? Not exactly convincing... “We don't want to hurt anyone,” Lily explained. Traffic was starting to pile up a bit and police sirens could be heard approaching from the distance. Admirers of the flower-blazoned heroes were cautiously making their approach, phone camera snapping and all. Dame Daffodil went about greeting her enthusiastic fans and explaining things, while Lily pulled the child off the street. “Look, um...-” She noticed him rubbing at his eyes, squinting at her. Oh, right – some magic about their costumes made it so people couldn't see their faces. “I'm Lady Lily. What's your name?” The kid tightened his cape and nodded, hands at his sides. “I'm Captain Spirit,” he announced, deepening his voice. Lily giggled a bit at this, smiling. A hero wannabe, huh? His accent, though...- “You're not from around here, are you, Mr. Spirit?” “It's Captain. And no. I'm-...I, uh, am on a mission to explore for new allies. We need all the help we can to take down the mastermind Mantroid.” “Oh, um....Mantroid, is it?” Lily nodded seriously. “I think I've...heard of him before.” “Really?” the kid checked, his 'hero' act fizzling into suspicion. “W-well, Lady Lily has heard of him.” She winked. Then wondered if he could even tell. But based on the way his lips went agape, his eyes narrowed, and he nodded back, she sensed he could. “He's quite...a bad...egg. Isn't he?” “Um, well, he's more of a...force of negative energy that...-” “So!” Dame Daffodil pounced upon them, startling them both. “Does this kiddo wanna join the team?” she teased with a sly-eyed grin. “Oh, no, Ma'am,” Captain Spirit insisted with his deepened voice, crossing his arms over his measly but puffed chest. “I already have a team of my own. But I am looking for allies to join our cause against the killer Mantroid and his-” “Hey, who's the kid?” Some of the gathering passersby were getting eager about their, er, new acquaintance. “Uh, actually, yea,” said Daffodil, “what's your name, buddy? Where's your parents?” “I'm Captain Spirit, fellow crime-fighter. My, um-...W-well, I...-” Lily gently placed a hand on the kid's frail shoulder. “It's all right,” she gently assured. “You can trust us with your secret identity, and we can help you find your family.” “Yea, we're real super heroes,” Daffodil said cheerfully. “We know how to keep a secret.” “Hey, I am a real super hero, too,” the child claimed, shrugging out of Alesea's grasp. “I helped you beat those monsters, remember?” Aaaand then Alesea suddenly remembered – that strange stuff that had happened, which had no accounted explanation. “Whoa, wait,” said Daffodil, leaning over Lily, who was bent over toward the kid. “You serious?” She whispered at Lily, “Is he serious?” The police cars had shown up and were surveying the damage – minimal, compared to what could have happened. A car crash in the middle of the intersection from when the monster had first attacked, and Daffodil had escorted the drivers – safe, thankfully. Other cars had piled up, and it wasn't the busiest road. A damaged street sign, another one bent over, and some potholes. So, not as bad as it could've been. But, still... “Time to go,” Lily decided, nudging Daffodil off her. Her partner slipped off her shoulder, rolling sideways and nimbly skidding onto her feet. “Let's get you back to your family, Mr. Spirit.” “It's Captain. Not Mister.” “Right! Sorry.” “Are your folks nearby?” Daffodil asked, surveying the crowd and waving to a police officer. “Uh, no, they...-” The boy's were quivering a bit at this question, which had Alesea worried. “My...grandparents are...probably still at the hotel, but...-” “Do you know the way there?” Lily asked. The child nodded with hesitation. “Off we go, then,” Daffodil declared, scooping the boy up in one arm and tucking him over her shoulder. “Wah-!” he was appropriately surprised. There were some startled sounds from the small crowd that had gathered at the intersection. “This-...This missing boy was separated from his family!” Lady Lily assured with a bashfully courteous wave, raising her voice at the lot. “We're...escorting him home!” “Definitely not kidnapping!” Daffodil added, bounding off with the child in tow. ~~~ Having gotten themselves far enough away from the little monster incident back there, Daffodil and Lily stopped between a deli shop and a liquor store – a cozy little alleyway would offer enough cover for them to sort this all out. “All right, I think we should be good here,” Lily advised. Daffodil nodded, setting the boy down – he groaned and grumbled a bit, straightening his cardboard armor, shuffling his hair a bit, and adjusting his cape. “You OK?” Daffodil checked. He nodded, but definitely appeared to be perturbed. “Why were you hiding?” Lily asked. “I mean, why aren't you with your family?” Daffodil excitedly squealed, “And was that you who did the cool, like, levitation-y thing?” He raised a brow at Daffodil, who was looked quite bright-eyed and eager. “It's all right,” said Lily, deactivating her ring. Her magical appearance flashed away, revealing her everyday form – currently dressed in khaki shorts and a white tanktop. With a wry smile at the boy's shocked expression, she told him, “See? We know what it's like to have to keep these sorts of things a secret...” “Whoa,” the child murmured. “How do I get my superhero costume to do that?” “Well!” spouted Daffodil, thrusting up a proud finger. “First of all, you've gotta-” “Charo...Can we maybe...take this one step at a time?” “Oh. What?” Lily just tilted her head and curved her brows, gesturing toward her attire. “Ah.” Daffodil reverted to her chipper Charo self, wearing baggy sports shorts with brightly colored t-shirt that looked like a bi-product of a 90's commercial.

“Wow,” sighed the child, clearly envious at their transformations. So, whatever power he had...it wasn't quite the same as theirs, was it? How had he seemed so nonplussed by their abilities before, yet suddenly so surprised at their magical outfits?

“My name – my real name – is Alesea.” She extended her hand downward, and he took it, star-eyed. “And this is Charo.” Charo, naturally, leaned against the brick wall with her arms crossed, trying to look all suave. She slipped a little, the wall having been further back than she'd thought. “We can totally keep the whole 'secret identity' thing a...secret,” Charo insisted, nodding as she undid and redid her spiky little ponytail. “We've been doing this stuff ourselves for a while.” “So,” said Alesea. “What's your name?” The boy swallowed nervously, evidently embarrassed by his hand-made costume. Aw, poor little guy, that wasn't...why they'd...- “Those are fancy names,” he mumbled, shrugging. “I'm just...Chris.” “Chris is still a nice name,” Charo tried to placate. “A-and I mean, Captain Spirit? Wow, you, um, you've got us beat with that superhero name, huh? Way cooler than...erh...-” She shrugged, trailing off. “So, Chris,” Alesea began slowly. “You saw us using...um, abilities. Do you really have something like that, yourself?” Chris nodded, his bout of bashfulness giving way to a sudden excitement. He gave Charo a determined look. “It's my turn to pick you up,” he said with a mischievous little chuckle. “Eh?” Charo said, her expression wavering as the boy stuck his palm out toward her. “Wahhp-!” Charo squeaked as she slipped backward, drifting slowly up in the air. She began to giggle, watching a crushed beer can and a few pebbles start to float up beside her. She thrust out her fists, tucking her legs in and trying to spin around, but was realigned upward. Alesea studied the boy's form as he kept this up for a moment. He looked intently focused, his hand trembling, like he was wrestling with an unseen force. “Our lad here's got a juicy magic ability~” Charo snickered, trying to sway herself around. She tapped at the hovering beer can, and it moved, but wobbled back into the space it had occupied. “Like, OJ with pulp juicy!” Alesea burst into a snort-giggle, covering up her face to stifle her own aroused laughter. Charo had to stop being so adorably weird in public, it was rather distracting... Charo stretched out her legs, downward, and slammed her fists on her hips. Chris let her drop, and she landed, flat-footed, with a joking pride about her. This dissipated into some giggles. Chris, however, while smiling at first, began to cough and sputter some. Alesea and Charo practically swarmed the lad with concern. His frail hand shooing them off didn't stop Alesea from patting his back. The coughs worsened momentarily before they cleared up. “Whoa,” Charo winced he recovered. “That, um-...All that juice means you've gotta squeeze some oranges...huh?” “...What?” Chris groaned, still fuzzy-headed. “Looks like you're still learning how to use your abilities,” Alesea sympathized. She rubbed his back a bit more until he seemed to level out. He nodded in reply to her observation, and she explained, “Well, don't worry. So are we.” She accented her words with an encouraging smile. “Practice makes better,” Charo assured. Chris retorted, “Isn't it...practice makes perfect?” “Huh?” Charo's eyes slid upward as she tapped at her chin. “Sure, people say that, but...-” “Just...-” Alesea's smile withered nervously. “-...don't overexert yourself, Chris.” “I don't...know what that word means,” Chris admitted with a shrug. “Oh, um...-” Alesea's lips pouted out uncertainly. Maybe she was being a little too intimidating with how she spoke? Charo tagged in for this one. “You don't wanna push yourself so hard, buddy.” She ruffled his hair a little and he grunted a laugh, taking a step back. “Don't want you to choke on all that...superpower pulp.” “I don't like pulp in my orange juice, anyway,” Chris declared. “Smooth juicin' from here on out, then,” decided Charo, smacking one palm against the other arm's flexing bicep. Alesea shot her partner a bemused look, smirking. What was she going to do with this dorky Dame? “Anyway,” Alesea sighed out, shaking off her warm fuzzies. “How did you get this power, Chris?” Chris shrugged. “It just...happened one day. I fell, but...-” He stared down at his extended hands, flexing his fingers in, then out. “Then I...caught myself.” “No magical transformation, huh?” pondered Charo. “Did you maybe, like, feel the power coming from...something you're wearing?” “Oh, w-well-” He fluttered his cape. “-Captain Spirit's cape boosts his powers, but...-” “You can still do this without the cape,” Alesea noted, to which he nodded.

Alesea and Charo shrugged at one another. Strange. Whatever abilities this boy had, it sure wasn't related to their own. Then again, he definitely wasn't from their neck of the woods, so perhaps that was hardly a surprise. “Actually,” Alesea began, leading the trio out onto the street and out of the alleyway. “Where are you from, Chris? How did you end up out here?” “Yea,” Charo chimed in, “Are you lost?” “Maybe a little lost,” Chris mumbled with a shrug. “I'm from America.” “Ah, wondered about that,” said Charo. “This is, um, a long way from there...” “Ha, yea, the airplane ride was super long,” Chris sighed. “My grandparents fell asleep for most of it so I got really bored. I watched, like, three movies. And I'd already seen two of them.” Alesea and Charo smirked at each other over the boy's shoulders as they reached a street corner. “Is this the way back to your family?” Alesea checked. “Uh...-” Chris paused, surveying the street signs. “Actually...I'm not sure.” Oooh, boy. The child sighed deeply, and he wobbled a little with a yawn, then a cough. “You don't look like you're feeling so well, there,” Charo muttered warily. “How about-...Well, my place isn't far from here, why don't we get you there-” Charo exchanged looks with Alesea, who nodded primly in approval. “-um, get you something to drink, let you, ya know, have a sit, and...we can help you figure out what's going on?” If worse came to worse, they could ring the authorities, but given the child's predicament, the idea of putting him in police care was concerning. Who knew what could happen if they discovered what he was capable of? And some paint on his face wasn't going to work the way their magic did. “Sounds...guh...-” Chris' form slipped over to one side, and Charo caught him fretfully. He snapped awake, stumbling back upright and rubbing at his eyes. “I think that's as good idea as any right now,” Alesea agreed with her partner's notion. ~~~ Alesea could feel her face pale at his expression, stoic and deadpan, staring down at the young boy napping on his lounge. He took a quiet, judgmental sip of his canned coffee. “And you...found him?” Sel dryly posed. “Y-yes, exactly,” Alesea mumbled. She took her own sip of iced coffee from her own can, trying to mask her embarrassment. “There was-...Well, we were out hiking, and Charo had a, um, tumble, and...-” “Is that what happened to you?” Anselmo suddenly balked, nearly choking on his coffee. He thrust a finger at Charo, who had just come out of the loo, her legs now plastered with bandages. Sel grumbled out, “What kind of hiking spot around here was so rough where that could've happened?” Charo shrugged, teeth grit. “Dunno, but I'm fine. Really.” “How do you two keep...-?!” Sel's face looked like a kettle ready to explode for a second, there. “That's not important right now,” Alesea interjected, sticking her more confident foot forward. “Is it?” she retorted, gesturing toward the tuckered out child. “I mean, maybe it's a good thing we wandered outside of our...normal...hiking route, or else this poor boy might've...passed out all on his own out there.” Charo lifted her brows, stuck her hands out toward Alesea, and nodded at her brother. His frustration fizzled out and he groaned audibly, slurping more of his coffee. “You two just have to try playing the hero, don't you?” Anselmo took a deep breath and fluttered his lips against the edge of his coffee can. Alesea and Charo exchanged wary smiles at his remark. “All right, so.” Sel wandered off to the kitchen, and the pair of partners followed him. Sel scooted his chair out a bit, crossing one leg over the other. He perused the contents Charo had scooped out of the boy's pockets when they'd de-armored him for his nap. A library card. “Chris...Eriksen, huh? Beaver Creek?” Anselmo noted the town logo displayed on the card. “Where's this boy from?” “America,” Charo replied with a shrug. “It sounded like he's here visiting with his family,” Alesea pointed out. “He mentioned his grandparents at a hotel nearby.” Anselmo slid another card around on the table, which had a big triangle near the top. “Must be a keycard for their room,” he observed. “Mm,” he hummed through a sip of coffee. “Aah. I recognize this place.” He passed it to Charo. “You should look up their number, give them a call.” Charo gawked at the card, a bit baffled at first, but then nodded and headed off for her bedroom. As Charo waddled off to her task, Alesea didn't know what to do with herself, hovering in the kitchen's doorway. She drummed her fingernails against the half-empty coffee can she was slowly working through. Then she felt Anselmo's critical gaze land on her. He sipped quietly, his dead eyes laser-firing a sting of disappointment at her. She felt her face turning pink with some shame and sipped in defense. “She was-” “How did-” They both had started to murmur at each other at once, keeping their voices down. Alesea pushing loose hair behind her ears, nodding complacently at Sel to let him go first. “How could you let her take a tumble like that?” “It was...-! She was...-! That...boy, we got...distracted – um, alarmed – he was in danger, and Charo, she-” “In danger?” Nnnnnnn maybe that made it sound worse...! “Oh, what? N-not, like, danger danger, I mean, he was...all by himself, and he could've...fallen, and so-” “So Charo fell instead? To prevent him from falling.” “S-Something like that, I...-” Anselmo took a deep breath, squinting his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nostrils.

“All right. That's enough.” Anselmo slurped the last of his coffee and planted the empty can on the table. “I don't know why you're lying to me. But I'm sure it must be to protect someone over something.” Alesea twitched a nervous shrug through her grimaced smile. “I guess at the end of the day, I'd rather my sister get some bug bites and scratches than let a lost child have a heat stroke. So...you did good.” “Mm...-!” Alesea grunted her gratitude through her coffee can.

Ansemlo breathed out tiredly as he rose from the table, grabbed the can and rinsing it in the sink. “Just wish you two would stop trying to take on these kinds of things, especially with...this monster business going on.” He flicked water from his fingertips and dunked the can into the recycling bin. “You could've called the cops or something, instead of...-” He warily flicked his wrist toward the lounge room. “We panicked,” Alesea confessed, clutching her can daintily with both hands, almost like a shield before her. “He was...over-excited about...finding someone who was...willing to help, and he had a dizzy spell – passed out. And we weren't...sure what else to...-” She swallowed a gulp of cold coffee and shook her head with shrug. Her stomach felt weird from the sensation of, well, lying to Sel. Again. This feeling was getting old, and fast. But what other choice did she have? Charo emerged from her room, still on her phone. “Yup!...Mm-hmn...Thanks.” She let loose a raspberry sigh as she ended the call. “Why'd you make me call them? Talking to random people on the phone is terrible. Mean Momo.”

As she grouchily pouted her way into the kitchen, she put her phone into her pocket as Anselmo gave her a pat on the head. “You brought him here,” Sel pointed out, heading toward the cupboard. “That makes you his host. And a good host would make those kinds of arrangements for their guest.” Alesea squirmed her way over and gave Charo a gentle rub on the back, complimented by a warm little smile, which she received back in turn. “Well?” Sel pondered, digging into the cupboard. “What did they say at the hotel?” “Oh, erh,” Charo scratched at the tip of her nose. “Sounds like his grandparents are the ones he's traveling with, they'd fallen asleep. Guess they'll be on their way to pick him up soon.” “Ah, good,” said Alesea, relieved to hear it. “In the meantime,” decided Sel, “we should probably give him something to eat, if he's been out out there in this heat. Now, I mean, it's been a while since I was his age,” Sel pointed out, “but I figure...-” He flashed them an unopened package of Hobknobs. “-...milk and biscuits, that's gotta be one way to pick up a boy's spirits, right?” “Chh, 'spirits,'” Charo snickered, elbowing Alesea. She couldn't help but giggle as another warm tingle swept up her neck. “What?” Sel prodded, slightly irate at their mocking. “It's just cute,” Alesea dismissed, nodding as she drank the last of her coffee. “I think it's a brilliant idea.” “I'll get the milk,” Charo decreed, heading off. Alesea gave her a pat on the arm to send her on her way. “I'll go wake him,” decided Alesea. Like their own little team, they went about their tasks with efficiency. Small as it was, it felt good working on the same side as Charo's brother, instead of working around him. Alesea knelt down over the couch, brushed her ponytail behind her shoulder, took a deep breath, and nudged a cautious hand at the child's shoulder. He moaned and sputtered nonsense for a moment before his eyes slowly opened. “...nfgh...th'prncess...” “Chris?” Alesea checked when his eyes closed again. “Hey. We've got a snack for you.” Chris opened his eyes again, wider this time. Alesea smiled at how adorable this kid was. “...nnn...have a pretty smile,” Chris mumbled, still half-awake. Alesea felt her face light up. “Like my mom's,” Chris yawned out. Alesea chuckled through her nose, not sure if she was more embarrassed for her, or for the boy. “What?” Charo prodded, amused but confused as she entered with a glass of milk, complete with ice cubes to keep it cold.

Alesea just shook her head, smirking, and gave her befuddled partner a rub on the arm. Charo set the glass down on the coffee table, and Anselmo sighed – loudly – as he put a platter of Hobknobs down beside it. Chris seemed a bit perplexed by this new figure, but not as startled at the change of scenery as one might expect. Anselmo was giving Charo a glare. She beamed innocently at her brother as she scooted a coaster beneath the glass of milk, appeasing him. Chris sat up, rubbing at his face some more. He scratched at his chest, and then the surprise kicked in. “Wh-? Where's my...-?” “Your gear is over there, Captain Spirit,” Charo quelled, nodding toward the front door. The boy noted his cape and cardboard armor sitting on the floor by everyone's shoes and, after a moment, nodded his contentedness about the matter. “He's a superhero,” Charo said to her brother, waggling her brows and nudging him with the back of her wrist. Jeez, Charo, do you really need to...-?? “Uh-huh,” Anselmo said dully. “Must be getting swept up in all that hype over those...'heroes'-” He air-quoted. EXCUSE HIM?? “-that the news is obsessed about.” Chris cleared his throat, “Mmph, I...used up my energy fighting off a monster attack.” He coughed drylu – ow, hopefully he was OK? “It's time to recharge...” He took a swig of ice-cold milk, humming pleasantly. “I can feee~eeeel the power.” Alesea had to contain another snort-giggle from escaping. “Heh.” Even Anselmo seemed a bit charmed, which was saying something. “Well, uh, every superhero needs to keep their strength up. We, uh, got you some Hobnobs, here, so...have at it.” Chris – well, Captain Spirit – frowned at this. Breaking character, he asked, “What's a hobnob?” Charo gasped with shock at this. “No. You eat those,” she commanded, jabbing a finger out. “You take one of those, and you stick it in your face-mouth-place, and you bite at it, and you eat it, and it is w-o-n-d-e-r-f-u-l...!” The kid seemed taken aback at this. “I-...I don't...-” “Like this!” Charo grabbed a biscuit and bit into it. “One nibble and your hobnobbled,” Charo quoted, not being dignified with a reaction. “I think you're scaring him,” Anselmo grumbled, clutching his sister by the skull to get her hyperactivity to settle down a peg. “They're just biscuits,” Alesea explained gently to Chris. “Go on, try one.” “Biscuits...?” He looked skeptical. He carefully picked one up, studying it. “Looks like a cookie.” “Oh, right,” Alesea blurted sheepishly. “American...” Through mouth full of Hobnob, Charo asked, “Whuff's uh googi emmeeweh?” Chris took a bite, seemed to approve, and then devoured the rest of the thing, glugging some milk along with it. A gentle rumble emitted from Charo's hip – her mouth still chewing at a Hobnob, she pulled out her cell phone. Swallowing and flinching at the under-chewed biscuit going down her throat, Charo greeted, “Hello?” She glanced at Chris, who was going to town on his snack. “Ah, yes! That was me. We-...Uh-huh. Yea, he's fine.” She nodded down at the boy, and then glanced at Alesea, who nibbled on a Hobnob herself, smiling back. “Directions? Erh-...I'm...-” She grimaced, tugging at Sel's sleeve. “Lehhhht me pass you to my brother, he can-...Ahhh, yea,” she said through a sheepish laugh. “Juh-...Yea, just a...-” Her eyes popped open wide, a flash of impatience as she handed her phone to Anselmo, who gave her a stern look before taking it. “What are these called?” Chris asked, breaking one of the biscuits in half. “Hobgoblins?” “Oh, uh-” “Hello, yes? This is Anselmo.” “They're good,” Chris blurted. “Mm,” Alesea lifted a finger toward him. “I'm her older brother. He's-” Chris rammed the two Hobnob halves against each other, growling and crying as he played. “...Mm.” Anselmo frowned briefly, then began to walk off. “He's safe. Just...having a snack, he-...Oh, well, it...sounded as if he could've been dehydrated, but-...Wait, from what hotel?” “-rreeEEOWW, ksshhh-ksshhh, shuh-WING~ ” Hoo. Kid was maybe having a bit of a sugar rush, or something? Charo grinned, grabbing a Hobnob and thrusting it toward Chris' dualing makeshift toys. She began to make weird little hissing noises – evocative of the kinds of black beasts they had been contending with. Chris rotated his pieces to face Charo's encroaching 'monster.' “ahhh watch out! it's a mega spike spider! It's heading right for us, I don't know if I can hold it off! captain spirit captain spirit! please lend us your power!” He set down the pieces, sticking out his hand. “Don't worry, Captain Spirit will protect you from far away. Hnnnnnn-” “O-OK, now,” Alesea chimed in warily, reaching out a hand to Chris's arm. “Just...don't...really use-” “I'm just playing,” Chris matter-of-factly advised. He nodded his head with raised brows off toward where Anselmo had gone, adding in a whisper, “There's still a civilian around...” Alesea smiled with bemusement, receiving a smirk from Charo. “Hnnnn-”

Charo began to wobble the biscuit around, slowly pushing it toward Chris' hand. She squealed and hissed angrily, making an adorably authentic face to match. “It's...so strong,” Chris grunted. “It's taking...all my power...just to-...urgh...-keep it from attacking...!” He scooped up his two biscuit halves suddenly, while still holding out his hand. “thank you thank you let's get outta here!” He waddled them off, tucking them behind his milk glass. He then drank a sip of milk while the thought occurred to him. “Now what?” Charo asked quietly, still thrashing her biscuit around. “You can't just...let it go free, can you?” “Uh...-” Chris seemed taken aback by the question. And Alesea was a bit alarmed at that being brought up again. “It'll hurt people,” Charo pointed out, squeezing in some more little monster growls. “So, what'll you do?” “I...erh...-” Chris scratched an itched on his nose, flustered. “Uh-oh,” Charo gasped, jerking the Hobnob about. “It's...breaking free...!” “Hnnnn-” Chris refocused his hand at it. “You can't keep this up forever,” Charo whispered in an eerie, villainous voice. “Sooner or later, you'll slip up...” “I-...I can throw it into space,” Chris theorized. “It can't hurt anyone up there!” “Can you throw it into space?” Charo growled with her cracking voice, brows narrowed. “I've never seen Captain Spirit wield such power. You're bluffing.” “I...could...put it in the ocean.” “haha, yessss, throw it in the sea~ It will make babies and consume the innocent animals!” “Charo,” Alesea snipped, giving her a sharp but gentle slap with the back of her wrist. She shrugged defensively. “If you can't destroy a monster,” Charo quietly rumbled, “how can you protect a person from it?” “Heroes can't kill,” Chris huffed. “I thought you were a hero, how come you're doing this?” Charo sighed, fluttering her lips and setting the biscuit back onto the plate. Agh, Charo...your fingers have been all over that... “Sorry,” Charo mumbled, shedding her facade. “It's just...being a hero, sometimes that means you can't...just...do the nice always.” “Then what's the point?” Chris raised. Charo gawked back at him. “It-...You're helping people,” she said. “Protecting them.” “But,” Alesea intervened, “what if there's another way to do it?” “Like what?” Charo puffed, her patience slipping a little at the implication. “What if I trap it?” Chris decided. “Keep it in, like, a monster cage. That way, we can get...a scientist to do research on it.” Alesea smiled at the notion. She wasn't so sure that would work in their particular case. But it was the thought that she got behind. “Mmmm,” Charo hummed, shrugging uncertainly. “That's...maybe harder to do than to say.” “Maybe you could...tame it?” Chris pondered, taking one of his biscuit halves from before and dipping it into his milk – a ways down – before eating it. “Like a stray dog?” he said through a cheekful of biscuit. Charo and Alesea traded thoughtful looks of consideration, neither sure of what that would entail, much less where they'd keep the things. “Do you want to keep a monster at your house?” Charo asked him. “Also – wouldn't it give away your secret identity? Also, what if those monsters keep coming all the time? Where do you put them all?” “Hm.” Chris crossed his arms, swallowed his morsel, and rubbed his chin blatantly. “Well, where do the monsters come from?” Alesea and Charo both paused at this. They didn't know. “Uh...up?” Alesea muttered, pointing a finger skyward, her face wrinkling with dissatisfaction at the blindness of their situation. “They fall from the sky.” “Whoa, like aliens?” Chris said quietly, in awe. Charo and Alesea gave each other bug-eyed shrugs. For all they knew...- “Maybe you can't throw them back up to space,” Chris admitted. “But if they got here, there's gotta be a way to go back where they came.” “Possibly,” Alesea decided. “Or at least a way to figure out what they really are,” she said to Charo, rubbing her partner on the shoulder. “It sounds like a better idea than trying to...keep this up, anyway.” Charo took a deep breath, her glazed-over eyes wandering off as an ashamed pout slipped over her face. Alesea squeezed her hand down, rubbing her thumb against Charo. “These are the kinds of complicated messes heroes get themselves into,” she said. She glanced to Chris and added, “And it takes a brave person to try to do something about it, even if they might do it in a different way.” She let her forehead press itself against the side of Charo's head. “Being a hero means making some mistakes along the way, but as long as you're keeping people safe...-” She sighed into Charo's neck. “-...you're still doing something important. And courageous.” Charo leaned back into Alesea, their skulls pressing together gently for a moment. “I'm glad I don't have to fight monsters like you do,” Chris decided, grabbing the biscuit that Charo had placed down. And putting it IN HIS MOUTH Aughh, Chris, Charo put her fingers ALL OVER THAT. “It's...pretty scary.” “Ah, well, every hero needs someone to help watch their back,” Charo replied, tapping Alesea's back with her chubby palm and scratching a little. “It's less scary that way,” she said, looking at her partner with a pink-cheeked grin. “A lot less scary,” Alesea agreed. “But...still scary.” Anselmo entered the room, thumbing the front door with the phone still to her ear. “Chris?” “Yea?” “I think your grandparents are here to pick-...Huh?” He side-eyed Charo's phone. “Yes, he's right-...Uh-huh.” “Oh.” Chris had a bit of a mopey look to him. Looking up to Charo and Alesea, he assumed, “Guess I should probably go, then, huh?” “You've got people waiting on you,” said Charo. “Gotta keep them safe, too, right?” “Keep them safe from driving on the wrong side of the road,” Anselmo muttered under his breath, handing Charo's phone back to her. Running his hand through his hair, he sighed. “Anyway. Uh...So, Captain Strange-” “Spirit.” “Captain...Spirit. Next time you've got monsters to fight, uh...make sure to check in with your family first, all right?” “Roger.” Chris bounded up from the couch and give Sel a salute. He grabbed another Hobnob, stuffing it into his face, and guzzling down the last of the milk. Heh. “Gotta stayed fueled,” Charo encouraged, ruffling his hair roughly as he wiped a milk mustache from his lip. “Make sure you don't, ya know, drain your Spirit Batteries when you fight evil.” “Yea,” Chris agreed, looking up at Charo with an admiring smirk. As he rounded the table and passed by Alesea, she gave him a pat on the shoulder. She leaned down and said to him with a cautious tone, “I think you're right, that heroes should try to not hurt anyone – even monsters. Just remember that sometimes...people are the monsters.” “So...” Chris gave her a thoughtful nod with a gleam in his eye that she very much approved of. “That means it's super important to try to save them. Those people, I mean.” Alesea beamed down at him and nodded emphatically. She escorted him to Charo's front door. He gathered his armor and stuck it on. A car beeped from outside. Alesea concluded, “I'm sure you'll figure that stuff out as you go, um, Captain Spirit. Even the most super of heroes have to figure out these kinds of things. Whatever you do, I just hope you can learn to be whatever kind of hero you need to be.” “You've definitely got the stuff to be super~” Charo assured, helping tighten his cape on and nudging him along out the door. Heading to the driveway with him at her side, Charo pumped up a fist. “When you get back home, you've gotta find your own way to be someone's hero!”

#Dame Daffodil #Captain Spirit #Crossover #One shot #writing commissions

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naiatabris · 7 years

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Cullen Appreciation Week 5: Friends

Another day, another shameless post of old material! But this is one of my very favorite chapters I’ve ever written. Probably because it features Dorian. From “The Tale of the Champion,” full fic here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/2741936/chapters/6145970

The Hanged Man had Kirkwall’s worst ale and second-worst clientele, but it had the best gossip, and it was one of the only places in the city that never got around to banning Isabela. So it became the host for regular games of Wicked Grace among Hawke’s friends. Merrill eventually learned not to announce when she was bluffing.

The sight of Dorian’s arm around Cecily’s shoulders stirred something unpleasant in Cullen. He couldn’t help but notice the way she leaned into the embrace, taking comfort in the contact.

Soon, it seemed to Cullen as if he never saw Cecily without Dorian present. He was there while she and Solas performed various tests on the mark, lending his own magic when required, discussing possible remedies for the Breach in technical terminology that made Cullen's head hurt. They took most of their meals together and they seemed to laugh a great deal, especially when Varric joined them. Cullen half expected Dorian to follow Cecily into the war council, and only just managed to bite back a sarcastic remark about her missing shadow when she entered alone.

Maker’s breath. I have no right to be jealous. She’d shown no sign of interest in him—indeed, she’d been distant ever since he’d told her about Kirkwall, and he couldn’t blame her.

One afternoon, as Cullen headed back to the war room after training with his soldiers, he heard a laugh float out of Cecily’s small Chantry office. “I will win eventually, Dorian.”

Unable to help himself, Cullen walked past her door. It was open, revealing the Herald and her Tevinter mage sitting at her desk with a chessboard between them. “Promises, promises, my dear Cecily,” Dorian said, moving one of his pieces. “Your situation is more dire than you realize.”

Cecily looked at the board, then moved her tower to take Dorian’s archmage. “I think you’re the one in trouble this time.”

“Ah, I’m afraid not.” Dorian moved his knight.

Cecily groaned. “Blast it! I didn’t see that.” She looked at the board, her eyes narrow. “Damn. No matter what I do you’ll win in three moves.”

“Yes. But if you had noticed my knight, you might have played me to a draw. You’re getting much better,” Dorian said. “Of course, you’ve had an excellent teacher.”

“Of course,” she replied wryly.

It was Dorian who noticed Cullen first. “Commander! I don’t suppose you play chess? Our Herald here was hopeless when we began playing, but she’s approaching competence now.”

“Such flattery,” Cecily murmured, setting the board back to its starting configuration.

“I do play a bit,” Cullen said, suddenly seeing an opportunity to ease the lingering tension between them. “I don’t suppose I might claim the next game?”

Cecily stood. “Of course, Commander. I actually need to consult with Cassandra about something. But please, you two should continue.”

Apparently I should have been more specific, Cullen thought, hiding his frustration as best he could. He could not see a graceful way to decline playing against Dorian, so he sat, trying not to watch Cecily as she left the room.

Dorian looked at him with an expression Cullen couldn’t quite read. “Well. Won’t this be delightful? I’ve been thinking we should get to know each other better, Commander.”

“Indeed,” Cullen said politely. “Would you like the first move?”

“Oh no. Please, after you. You’re going to need every advantage you can get.”

An hour later, Dorian swore. “Damn. You’re actually quite good at this.”

Cullen laughed. “I’ll take the compliment.” Dorian was an excellent player and clearly hadn’t expected Cullen to pose a challenge. “My sister and I used to play. She could likely beat both of us, simultaneously.”

“I’ve gotten used to playing against Cecily, that’s the problem.” Dorian sighed and moved his knight; a sacrifice play, but necessary to keep him in the game. “She learns quickly but she’s still terribly predictable. We’re working on it.”

Cullen’s good mood subsided. He put one finger on his archmage, then removed his hand from the board and looked at Dorian. “What exactly are your intentions towards the Herald?”

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “My intentions? Commander, are you asking if I’m courting your Herald of Andraste?”

“Are you?” Cullen challenged.

“Certainly not. She’s a lovely woman, but she’s not really my type.”

“Oh, indeed? And what exactly is your type, then?”

The mage leaned back in his seat and gave him an amused smile. Not just amused, Cullen realized—appreciative. “Well, Commander. Since you asked, you’re rather close to it. I don’t suppose you’re available?”

Cullen’s mouth dropped open. “Um,” he said eloquently. “I. Um. I’m quite flattered, actually. But I … well, men aren’t …”

Dorian laughed and held up his hand, forestalling any more stammering. “It’s all right, Commander—I suspected that you prefer women. I’ll try not to hold it against you. Whatever made you think Cecily and I were courting?”

Embarrassment colored Cullen’s cheeks. “You’ve been spending a great deal of time together," he said lamely. "She is different around you. Happier."

Dorian considered this for a moment. “Well, we’re friends.” It sounded like the idea surprised him. “Apparently getting trapped in a red-lyrium-addled dystopia together is an excellent bonding experience. Not that I’m recommending it, mind you. Now it’s my turn for an uncomfortable question. Are you asking out of brotherly concern? As a representative of the Inquisition? Or because you want to court her yourself?”

Cullen wished he were a better liar. “She is important to our success,” he said vaguely. “I have been wishing that things between us were easier. Friendlier. As they seem to be between you.”

“And why aren’t they, do you think?” Dorian twirled one of Cullen’s captured pieces between his fingers, his eyes intent on the Commander.

Cullen sighed. He didn’t entirely want to be telling Dorian this, but who else could he seek counsel from? “Have you read Varric’s Tale of the Champion?”

Dorian shook his head. “The Kirkwall events didn’t really have the same significance in Tevinter.”

Cullen felt absurdly grateful for that. “I crossed paths with the Champion a few times. The Tale records some things I’m not proud of, things I said about mages. Cecily made the connection. I’m ashamed of what I said now,” he added hastily. “And there was much more I could have done in Kirkwall. I cannot blame her for thinking less of me.”

“Did you tell her that?”

Cullen nodded. “But I haven’t known what to say to her since.”

“You could try ‘good morning,’” Dorian suggested. “Or ‘how are you today?’ Or any number of things besides ‘I have the latest recruitment reports.’ That’s all I’ve heard you say to her since I’ve been here, and frankly it’s not very romantic.”

“Sometimes I have reports on missions we discussed at the war council.” Cullen heard the words and had to laugh at himself. “I take your point. I don’t know if I ought to be romantic, given our respective situations …”

Dorian heaved a tired sigh. “Yes, yes, duty, honor, distraction, et cetera.”

“But I would be content to know she didn’t hate me.”

Dorian blinked at him. “I’m reasonably sure she doesn’t, Commander,” he said dryly. “I’ll tell you what. If you win this game, I’ll write down ten things you can say to her that aren’t about reports.”

Cullen looked at the board. “You do know I’m two moves away from checkmate,” he said, trying to recapture his competitive bravado.

Dorian chuckled. “Are you indeed? I must be in a helpful mood, then.”

It took four moves, and the game ended in a stalemate. But the next morning, Cullen found a neatly folded note waiting for him at his desk.

Since it was a draw, I’ll give you five.

1. Good morning, Cecily. 2. Good afternoon, Cecily. 3. I’m afraid I’m out of reports today. Would you care to discuss the weather? 4. Isn’t Dorian handsome and charming? 5. Would you like to play a game of chess?

#cullen appreciation week #dorian #cullen #chess

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level3bird · 7 years

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the river beneath the river

If I could include in my word count all the posts that I’ve written and then deleted before posting, I would have a George RR Martin length tome on my hands.

Even after all these years of writing on tumblr, being vulnerable still drives me nervous.

I write. I delete. I do it again. Gah! Why does it have to be so difficult?

This tumblr began as a secondary super-secret place to write posts of a particular theme that I wanted to keep distinct from the place where I wrote about the rest of my daily life. That original tumblr also contained information about myself that I wanted to keep under wraps from those who might be reading my posts here. It all got to be too much of a muchness.

Even so, I still have the same argument with myself.

Do I write about what’s currently happening in my life here where I interact with people the most even though what’s current isn’t what brought people here in the first place or do I slink over to another new blog and keep my life as compartmentalised as I sometimes wish it could be?

Shit, who knows. Maybe I do both. I don’t want this to turn into a ‘recovery’ blog, but at the same time, it’s my blog and I ought to be able to write what I want. Then, on the other hand, I probably won’t ever say what I really need to say here and should probably be saying it elsewhere if I plan on being rigorously honest.

Macht nichts. This post is going to be here, so big whoop.

For the last couple of weeks, since deciding I needed to be back in the rooms, I’ve been trying to decide which sort I needed to be in.

If you’ve ever been in a 12-step program and have more than one addiction to deal with, if you could fit into more than one program, you know what I’m talking about. Do I stick with one? Do I hit up one of each kind every week?

The rooms where I started my journey to sobriety were Cocaine Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous. Cocaine and pills are not the addictions that I’m dealing with now.

Does it matter? I mean, isn’t addiction the river beneath the river and the drug of choice just the detritus floating along on the top?

Here in Australia, CA is pretty much out because coke isn’t as plentiful and cheap. In Texas, I could find a CA meeting anywhere. Of course, I could also find coke anywhere (and everywhere) as well.

That leaves AA, NA, OA, DA, CODA, and Al-Anon as the easiest meetings to find.

And even though I’ve got issues that would be a fit with CODA, OA and DA meetings, they aren’t the encompassing program that I need.

So, for me, I’ve now narrowed it down to AA and NA.

I’ve gone to various AA meetings in the last two weeks and thought I’d found a couple contenders for a home group. Alcohol has never been my drug of choice, but I felt that working the program overall, subbing out my own addictions anywhere alcohol was mentioned, would be workable. Of course, I know that many in AA would not agree with me. AA seems to focus on alcohol (obviously) and at times doesn’t take to those of us who consider ourselves addicts. My plan had been to remain respectful, to not talk about drugs, but rather couch my additions in the terminology of the program.

It wasn’t an honest approach, but fuck it, I’ve been hanging onto the knot tied at the end of my rope and I needed to do something.

I was hesitant to go back to NA meetings for other reasons. Namely, I know what kind of addict I am and I don’t want to find the guy who knows the guy who can get what I’d fall off into given half a chance and a bad day.

I figured that NA meetings would be triggering. No, I’m not delicate like that, but having spent as much time around junkies as I have, I know there is a vibe and I haven’t been sure I’ve been ready to face it. Now, both far removed and yet too familiar.

The AA meetings had been ok, but there was a bit too much god talk for me and, I don’t know, I felt like a fraud.

So, last night I went to a NA meeting. It was just what I expected it to be. And it was more.

I felt at home.

The meeting had a decent number of folk in it, mostly men, but a few women.

A circle of old recliners and Salvos sofas in a cavernous room off the back of a church. Probably a room much like hundreds of other NA meetings.

At first, I felt like the other people there were looking at me like I was lost. Heroin is a serious problem here in Melbourne and no doubt it was a drug of choice for many in the room. I’m sure I made snap judgments of everyone else the same way they made a snap judgment about me. I admit I looked around the room playing one of Mr iSay’s favourite games – Hipster or Homeless. (Yes, I know that in this case that sounds smug and fucked as.)

The thing is, however, I usually always learn something from the shadiest looking person in the room. I’ll get a truth bomb or a shot of wisdom out of the mouths of some of the most desperate looking characters that will remind me that I, too, was once just as desperate and just as far down the scale. I’ll be reminded that we all fall and we all struggle and that none of us want to be where we are as addicts.

I shared last night, which is something I haven’t done at an AA meeting here, and I didn’t die of fright or get the vapours from fear of sounding stupid.

I was the older lady who looked well-enough put together and out of place, but when I opened my mouth and talked about my relapse and my return to the rooms, noticed that several others were nodding along with me.

There is a difference in the way that NA’ers and AA’ers think about this Higher Power/God business. There are differences in that, from what I’ve seen, AA focuses on being powerless over a substance and NA focuses on being powerless over the addiction.

And, as a total stereotypical statement, I’ve found that NA’ers are your rough as guts folk who don’t really tolerate the bullshit, and who, at the other end of the spectrum, tend to be the most self-deprecating, funny people around. They’ve seen hell up close and aren’t afraid to report back what the climb out was really like.

No doubt, I’m totally biased.

I remember like it was yesterday sitting in a NA meeting back in Texas where someone shared that they didn’t understand why people thought junkies were stupid. He said, “Look, just we’re because a bunch of addicts doesn’t mean we should put ourselves down. We can figure out how to smoke meth out of an orange. That’s fuckin’ intelligence at work. We are resourceful engineering motherfuckers!”

Amen, brother, amen. I get it. They get it.

So, for me, NA is where I need to be. We can rag on the idea of God while genuinely figuring out that our Higher Power isn’t us.

We can share about what we had, what we lost, all that we’ve found, what we’ve worked hard for, how we’ve persevered and how we’ve also failed ourselves and others.

It doesn’t matter if it is the coke or the heroin or the meth or the crack or the sleeping tablets or the booze or the food or the gambling or the benzos or the sex or a combination of one or more of the above.

We’re addicts and the river beneath the flotsam and jetsam is where our problem lies.

I guess that’s all I’ve got for now.

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builder051 · 7 years

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Who are the stars (MCU Captain America fanfic)

Title from (and whole fic very much inspired by) Through Glass by Stone Sour. (Honestly it just came on the radio and I listened to it and was like, well this is very literal.)

This is a lot more along the lines of what I usually write (MCU/Captain America/ Stucky/sickfic). This one is sort of hurt/no comfort, so I apologize if that’s not your jam.

Also, I am brand new to Tumblr, so if there’s a better way to tag this, please let me know. I’m used to AO3, and this platform is still quite alien to me. I’m learning!

___________________________________________________________________

I’m looking at you through the glass

Don’t know how much time has passed

But it feels like forever

___________________

The first day, Steve can’t leave the room. It’s uncomfortable, freezing with humid air conditioning. The plastic chair is so uncomfortable it’s practically bruising his sit bones. There’s no reason for him to be there, but he can’t drudge up anything more important. Nothing comes close to being as important as this.

Steve breathes in the slightly-antiseptic scent of the air. His eyes burn faintly, but whether that’s from the presence of a chemical or just pure exhaustion, he’s not quite sure. It’s probably the latter; he just doesn’t want to admit it. Steve drops his elbows to his knees and his head to his hands. There’s a bed waiting for him somewhere in this lavish building. He just can’t will himself up on his feet to point his boots toward the door. He can’t leave the glass tube that’s become the center of his universe.

Bucky looks so peaceful. He could be asleep, gently dreaming and tucked safely under Steve’s arm, were it not for the light dusting of white-blue ice dusting his features. The tiny crystals cling along his hairline and in his eyebrows and along his cheek-brushing lashes. The image is imprinted on the back of Steve’s eyelids.

He leans forward in the painfully hard chair so the top of his head wedges against the freezing glass. He imagines his head in Bucky’s lap, sharing warmth and receiving comfort from the tears that are threatening to leak from the corners of his exhausted eyes. But the real sensation couldn’t be more of the opposite. The tube is frigid and devoid of the soft give that makes human touch so soothing. The position brings him physically closer to Bucky, but the insistent presence of the barrier makes him feel as though he’s miles farther away. It makes Steve’s stomach churn.

T’Challa’s promised to keep Bucky safe. Steve has no reason not to believe him. He and the king hadn’t gotten off to the best start, but they’d finished on the same side. And this, the offer of shelter, of whatever he and Bucky could possibly need, it’s impossibly generous. And now, especially after Bucky’s already made his choice, it seems impossibly rude for Steve to just keep sitting here.

Time seems not to have any meaning. He meant to stay with Bucky for a few minutes. When T’Challa came to check on him the first time, he knew it had to have been a few hours. Now it’s come full circle and Steve’s second guessing whether an eternity’s passed or just a heartbeat.

But time has to be moving; there’s more evidence than Steve wants to admit. The spectacular view outside the windows of the medical wing is growing dimmer. It’d been barely morning when he’d held Bucky’s hand tightly and asked for the final time if he really wanted to do this.

So he’s lost a whole day. But what’s a day in a life better described in decades? Or in a life when he just got Bucky back, and now it’s possible he’ll never have him again. Never get to hold him, feel the warm touch of his skin…

The back of Steve’s neck prickles. He’s almost shivering, but feels like he could be sweating too. The tremor in his fingers is more than it ought to be from just cold. Steve’s memory stirs, and through the haze of Bucky and Brooklyn, he realizes the fight at the airport and then the fight in Siberia took place in the last 48-odd hours. They feel so much further away than, say, the last time he hugged Bucky to his chest before the war.

His accelerated healing’s taken care of most of the bruises on his body, but it’s exacerbating the throb behind Steve’s forehead. He takes a second to try and recall the last time he took a drink of water, but everything’s a blank. Nothing’s mattered but Bucky.

“Captain Rogers.” T’Challa’s deep vice floats across the room.

Steve doesn’t answer. He re-stacks his posture so he’s leaning into his chair rather than up against the cryotube. He’s still hunched in on himself, and he’s doubtful that the shift has made him appear any less pathetic.

“You’re still with him.”

Steve isn’t sure if he’s supposed to take it as a statement of the obvious or as a reassurance. He raises his head an inch or so, but regrets it when gravity catches up and increases the throbbing of his headache and the pressure behind his eyes. “Yeah, I…” He starts, not sure what he intends to say.

“I admire your commitment,” T’Challa says. “He’s lucky to have you.”

“No, it’s, I’m lucky to have him,” Steve stammers. The heaviness starts pooling in his bottom eyelids. He wipes at the impending tears with one shaking hand.

“You’re not well,” T’Challa observes.

“No, I’m fine.”

“You haven’t eaten. Or slept,” the king insists.

“I don’t need…” Steve trails off. But with each passing second, it’s becoming more apparent that he does. The view out the windows has gone completely pitch black. Sunrise has to have been just moments ago…

“You need to care of yourself,” T’Challa says. “I have your room prepared on the floor above.”

“I appreciate it,” Steve whispers. “But I can’t leave him.”

T’Challa takes a long pause, pressing his fingers together. “You are determined. But I can’t allow you to harm yourself. I can have the doctor give you intravenous fluids. That can get you by for a short while, but eventually you’ll have to rest.”

The offer is tempting for a moment, but Steve imagines Bucky laughing at him, calling him a punk. Telling him off with a playful swat to the back of the head. Then turning his voice serious to make Steve promise to take better care of himself.

“I, god, I just…can’t leave him”

“He will be safe. You have my word,” T’Challa says. “I’ll sit with him myself for the night.”

Steve sighs. It’s an impossible thing to ask of someone else, even though Steve was planning on doing it himself. “I…”

T’Challa’s hand materializes under Steve’s arm. “Please,” the king says quietly. He doesn’t twitch at how much weight Steve puts into him on his way to standing.

“There are basic provisions in your room. Please, use the intercom to order whatever you’d like to eat,” T’Challa says.

Steve lets him escort him to the elevator. “I’ll be back, as soon as-as it’s morning. I—”

“Don’t concern yourself. Everything will be fine.”

Steve steps reluctantly into the elevator. He watches T’Challa stride toward the cryotube and pause behind the chair where Steve’d been sitting. When the metal doors slide closed, he lets himself lean into the wall and acknowledge how horrendous he feels. The headache and clamminess are quickly giving way to nauseous heart palpitations.

It’s part hypoglycemia and part panic attack (and part raw unadulterated emotion, but Steve doesn’t want to touch that part). The motion of the elevator softly jerking upward has him cupping his hands over his mouth so he doesn’t dry heave in the modern metal box.

The guest room is as luxurious as his room in Stark Tower had been. Steve hardly takes it in, though. He has to sit with his head between his knees because the walls threaten to close in.

As soon as he’s sure he’d not going to vomit, he inhales a quart of Gatorade and half a dozen protein bars. Then, still sitting in the middle of the floor, he lets the tears fall.

Steve hadn’t had time to mourn Bucky when he’d first lost him. The fall from the train had been in the middle of the mission against Red Skull, and Steve couldn’t afford to stop and let the insurmountable avalanche of emotion smash into him. Then after he’d been rescued from the ice, Steve’d been confused. The passage of time was hard to follow. And then in the blink of an eye, Bucky had been back. And then there were the years of tracking him down. And now he’s gone again.

Not gone in the way he’s been gone before. He’s not dead. He’s not tortured. But he’s still gone. Inaccessible for the entirety of the foreseeable future. And it’s with that thought still in his mind that Steve’s exhaustion takes over. He falls asleep on the rug.

The second day, Steve starts his watch beside the glass tube early in the morning. It’s still dark when he takes the elevator down one floor to the medical wing. T’Challa is in the plastic chair Steve vacated the previous night. He’s flipping the pages of a novel, but his expression’s too glazed for him to actually be reading. A cart laden with a teapot and mugs has been pulled up beside the cryotube. It’s as if T’Challa and Bucky have been sharing the libation.

“You’ve rested?” T’Challa checks as soon as he sees Steve.

“Yes,” Steve affirms.

“But not in the bed.”

“What?” Steve subconsciously brushes his hand down the side of his face, and he finds the sharp imprint of the textured rug. “Oh.”

T’Challa gives the ghost of a smile.

Steve turns his gaze to Bucky’s serene face behind the barrier of the glass. He’s not sure why he feels like it’s so necessary to check; Bucky looks exactly the same as he did the day before. Peaceful. Sleepy. Like Steve is supposed to be feeling, up early after spending the night in T’Challa’s palace.

“I will bring up a more comfortable chair,” T’Challa says as he stands up and stretches, rubbing a hand over his lumbar spine and the curve of his ass.

“It’s ok,” Steve murmurs, looking back to Bucky’s delicately closed eyelids.

“It’s not,” T’Challa says. He drops his book onto the tea cart and lifts the plastic chair to tuck it under one arm. “The staff will replace it with something finer. In the meantime, please, join me for breakfast?” The king looks hopeful.

Steve glances from T’Challa back to Bucky. The logic in him says he needs to re-assimilate. Learn how to be around people again after three days of utter disaster. But in his heart, there’s no contest. “I’m… I just can’t,” he whispers.

T’Challa sighs. “Alright. I’ll have a different chair brought in immediately.” There might be an undertone of disappointment.

Steve stands beside the cryotube as the king and the plastic chair disappear into the elevator. He lets his forehead and right hand plaster to the glass. Bucky stays peaceful and beautiful. Steve imagines drifting his fingertips through the ends of the long hair, trailing across the empty metal shoulder. His hand goes white from contact with the tube’s frigid exterior.

It’s been over 70 years since he really touched Bucky like that. It was hard to be together physically during the war, what with the close quarters and constant presence of others. For the past few days, priorities have gotten in the way. Steve’d tried to invite Bucky into an embrace the night before he’d gone back into cryo, but tensions had been too high. Bucky’d bristled in Steve’s arms, and Steve’d been forced to let him go.

True to T’Challa’s word, the improved chair is brought in immediately. Two uniformed men bring a claw-footed and richly upholstered armchair from the elevator with enough noise to make Steve raise his head.

“Oh, geez,” Steve mutters, torn between rushing to help, telling them to take it back, and exploding with a thousand thanks. He ends up standing awkwardly in front of the glass tube as they maneuver the piece of furniture across the medical wing.

“You will be much more comfortable now, Captain Rogers,” one of the workers says as he angles the bulky chair so it’s positioned directly across from Bucky as if he and Steve are want to play cards or have a therapy session.

“Yeah, thank you,” Steve manages. “This is…totally not necessary. I’m fine, I just…”

“Are you in need of anything else?”

“No. I’m fine. I—this is too much already.”

Both workers nod and retreat, leaving Steve alone again.

Steve stays on his feet for a moment before taking a step back to relax into the chair. It’s only a matter of inches further away from the glass, but it may as well be a mile. Steve grips the seat by its plump arms and noisily scoots it along the tiled floor until its close enough for his knees to touch the cryotube.

Time settles into its usual rhythm, but to Steve it’s still unnoticeable background noise. The quality of light streaming through the windows changes, and two or three times someone comes by to refresh the tea tray with hot water and plates of cookies.

Steve’s barely aware of what he’s doing as he sips warm liquid from the mug between his hands. It does feel much better to be properly hydrated, but the dull ache in his head and sharper one in his heart remain unchanged.

It’s dark again outside when he bows forward with his hairline jammed against the glass. A fresh cup of tea sends swirls of steam into clouds of fog on the outside of the tube. A single tear adds to the accumulating moisture on Steve’s cheeks as he whispers, “I miss you, Buck.”

On the third day, Steve brings his sketchbook. He means to capture the paradise of scenery out the window, or maybe some of the ridiculously futuristic machinery within the medical wing. But he can’t bring himself to turn the chair around. He can’t even force his head to turn away from the sight of Bucky’s serene face.

So that’s how the picture starts. The soft outline of his pacifically closed eyelids graces the paper first. Then the gentle curve of his nose and the peak of his cupid’s bow. The features come to life before they encase themselves in the shape of face. Each stroke of jawline, hairline, and cheekbone brings another modicum of impossible beauty to Bucky’s likeness.

Steve can’t make his hand draw the stumped metal shoulder or lines of the cryotube or the hard seat that props Bucky up. It would bring in the darkly transparent barrier that’s a reminder of everything bad that’s ever happened to them. So instead, Steve sketches in a plumped pillow under Buck’s head, a tangle of blankets around his bare chest.

To Steve, there’s no sight more perfect. He clearly remembers the last time he really saw it, the morning before Bucky shipped off back in ’45. He remembers the feel of Bucky’s slightly stubbly cheek and his soft lips and even the subtle breeze of his breath. The only real change now is his hair. And Steve longs for the chance to run his fingers through it.

He pauses and lifts his pencil from the page where he’s been shading the shadow of bedding against Bucky’s pectoral muscle. Everything feels so perfectly right that it has to be all wrong. The room’s suddenly hot even though it’s freezing. And Steve’s jeans are too tight in all the wrong places.

He raises his eyes to make contact with Bucky’s closed lids through the glass. He wants so badly that he’s ashamed of himself.

The elevator doors sliding open sounds distant. Heat is rising from his crotch up through his stomach and chest and up to his cheeks. Steve hears his own blood pounding in his ears, and all he can think to do is get out of there before T’Challa comes up behind him.

“Captain Rogers?”

Steve’s already sprinting into the bathroom, slamming the door shut and locking it behind him. He backs up against the heavy carved wood and breathes heavily. He shouldn’t be feeling like this about Bucky when he’s frozen and unable to speak for himself. He shouldn’t feel this way at all according to the outdated logic that still smites his thoughts, even though he knows better.

“Goddamnit,” Steve mutters into his fist. He puffs out a gust of air and cups himself through his jeans with his other hand. Mad impulses of desire mix with desperation and shame, and Steve doesn’t know what to do. He’s disgusted with himself. He’s about to give in and yank down his zipper when his body changes its mind and he’s suddenly gagging morning tea into the toilet instead.

When the wave of sickness ends, Steve’s thankfully flaccid again. But he’s dizzy and prickling and suddenly hit with the realization that he hadn’t so much as closed his sketchbook before he ran away from T’Challa.

“Shit,” Steve whispers. He runs the sink, gripping the basin with both hands and doing his best to both hurry and buy time. He shouldn’t be humiliated. He didn’t do anything. But the cloud still hangs over him, and the urge to cry joins the nebulous swirl of everything else still playing around his brain and hollow chest.

He doesn’t look at T’Challa when he steps out of the bathroom.

“You’re still unwell,” the king states.

Steve isn’t sure if he’s referring to his depressed mood and loose emotions or the recent sounds vomiting or the unfinished sketch still sitting in the lavish armchair. But it all adds up to the same thing. He’s on the opposite side of the cryotube from where the chair is positioned, but he can still see the curve of Bucky’s ear and the dark curtain of hair obscuring the edge of his face. And it’s again as if that’s the only thing in Steve’s entire existence.

“Yeah,” Steve chokes. He leans back until he catches the wall, then slides down it. Steve masks his face in his kneecaps, but he still hears T’Challa do the same. He’s not sure how much longer he can do this.

On the fourth day, Steve leaves a thank-you note.

Then he walks purposefully down the hall of the compound, not pausing to look through the window of the medical wing. If he does, he’ll never leave.

And now what he needs most is to step back out into the world and face the future. Which feels like it’s poised to be this way forever.

___________________

But no one ever tells you that forever feels like home

Sitting all alone inside your head

#fanfic #fanfiction #mcu #captain america #post ca:cw #feels #emeto #stucky #hurt #cryo #emotions

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castawxayaway · 7 years

Text

tinted vision

No. 52: “I wouldn’t change a thing about you.”

this is actually a combination of a request from a few days ago and one of the many prompts requested by @captivatedby-captainswan a lot of fluff tonight, I know it is a bit later than anticipated, but hopefully worth the wait!

if you want to see the list for yourself and maybe request one *nudge nudge* feel free to!

prompt list / collection of my writing / requests open

oh! I forgot to say, I made a twitter (a second one) for bastille stuff. not sure if I’ll use it but if you want to follow and await something idek what its @icarus_cat but if you want to stalk my pathetic life and what I do follow my main twitter @catherine_edss :)

Slowly walking around my flat I can hear them all getting ready whilst I impatiently ponder about what our trip to London would entail. “Are you almost ready? We should’ve left five minutes ago now if we want to get there on time!” Trying to conceal the irritation in my voice I yell to them, receiving shouts of ‘five minutes’ back from my two friends.

After an additional five minutes and over analysing my appearance they both rush down the stairs, standing before me with flushed cheeks. “Let’s roll.” Elysia cheered as she opened the front door, trying her best to get into the birthday spirit.

Once we near the beloved restaurant I brush down my dress and clear my throat, knowing Kyle would be hanging around waiting and always commented on how presentable I should look. To expect the expected as we turn the corner there he is, leaning against the wall scrolling through his phone, totally oblivious to his sister and girlfriend. “Earth to Kyle?” I wave my hand in front of his face and only then does he lift his head, smiling.

“Alright sis?” He asks, greeting me with a warm embrace. Glancing over his shoulders I see another figure, one that turns my blood cold.

His overly drawn out blue eyes, the contrasting shades that melt hearts yet makes mine frozen. He raises an eyebrow to the sight of me, he didn’t expect to see me here either. “What is he doing here?” I mutter to Kyle who sighs loudly, clearly frustrated over the never ending hatred that has been standing between me and Dan for, well a long time.

Holding me at arm’s length he tries to use his chirpy smile to distract me, yet his smile remains concealed in amongst his facial hair whilst mine sinks at the sight of him. “Look, you don’t have to acknowledge each other, just be nice.” Clicking his fingers in front of my face I lock eyes with him. “For Elysia, it is her birthday after all.” I could see the pleading look in his eyes, he still tries his hardest to impress her after two years.

Nodding in agreement I turn back to see my friends standing a few meters back, hesitant to see what remarks ought to be thrown between me and Dan. Exhaling, I walk over to them muttering how it was going to be okay. That today I wouldn’t let him get under my skin, I would deal with his presence.

Walking inside he tried to step in before me, the smirk that he wore as if it were a natural expression that occurred when I was around, how my blood boiled. Stepping inside after him I clenched my fists, only to have Elysia tap me on the shoulder, giving me a look of desperation. I smile back to her, trying to convince her I’ll manage, it’s a few hours. He’ll be there, but I don’t have to interact with him.

Sitting down I see the seat opposite remains empty, a wave of relief washes through my system and I can feel Elysia squeeze my hand. “Sorry they told me they needed that setting.” He mumbled to Kyle as he now sat down, directly opposite me.

I could tell he was enjoying this, he always liked seeing me suffer in his presence. “How’re you Dan, doing well?” Sarcasm drips off of my voice, it always did with him.

He rested his elbows on the table and tilts his head to me, leaning in closer and closer, trying to break through my barriers. “I’m doing swell.” It didn’t matter what he said, how charming he acted to the waiters I would scoff, try and distract myself, do anything but acknowledge him.

“For once,” Kyle sighed loudly as he pointed between the two of us. “can you not hate each other this much? I want a nice afternoon to celebrate my girlfriend’s birthday.” The sternness in his voice increased along with the harsh look in his eyes as he acted like Dad would when we would argue as children, how the tables have turned.

I complied, ignoring Dan but mumbled into my drink, “Just saying he doesn’t have to be here. He is the one with the pity invite.” Smiling as I sipped at my drink I glanced up to him, seeing his jaw clench I rested back into my chair, satisfied with my efforts so far to annoy him further. Elysia gave me a look and I shrugged my shoulders, “I said I’d try.” I comment as she rolls her eyes, focusing back on Kyle as he holds her hands in his.

“One day you two will realise you don’t hate each other at all, and you’re secretly in love.” Kyle jokes and the others start laughing whilst me and Dan exchange a look of disgust, utter and complete distaste for each other in agreement.

“You’d have to kill me if that ever happens.” I remark whilst Dan downs his drink, his form of response less dignified.

Walking along the streets of unknown roads I could see the grey clouds looming, only becoming darker and more menacing with each passing minute. As I picked up my pace trying to search for a sight, something I would recognise it all clicks into place. Only as it clicks into place I notice a few drops in the river, followed by a wave of them and my back to absorb it all as it trickles through my fabric and freeze my flesh.

Picking my jacket off of my skin I wrap it tighter around myself as I keep my head down, trying not to get drenched entirely. Looking around I shrug it off, knowing that there is no where else my feet can lead me. I walk up the four steps, only having done this once before but I remember the distinct old fashioned doorknob, the engravings of details that I couldn’t help but admire as I waited for him to answer- well to hopefully answer.

Trying to conceal my shivers I hear the locks go inside, then the creaking of the door and a shadowed corridor reveals itself. Peering round the corner his eyes go wide with confusion behind his glasses, something that takes me back- I didn’t know he wore glasses. He raised an eyebrow as I stood in silence, me being the last person he would want nor expect to see standing at his front door. “Look,” I sigh. “I know I am probably the last person you want to see,” Glancing around I kick myself mentally for having to say this, to have to interact with him. “my phone is dead, I am soaked through and I’m pretty sure I will get hypothermia if I try and stay out here wandering around London.” His eyes roam up and down my figure, seeing how my clothes uncomfortably stuck to me and the pure pain in my face about this situation.

I could see him considering it, contemplating closing the door on my face and leaving me out in the cold, but I knew he wasn’t that cold hearted. He licked his lips and quietly sighed before opening the door. “Wait here a minute, I’ll go get you something to warm up.” Stepping inside I could hear my shoes squelching, completely soaked through as puddles formed around me, distorting the woodwork.

Watching him walk away something seemed different. His attitude wasn’t as sly, his attire wasn’t the same. The usual suffocatingly skinny black jeans were replaced by loose joggers, his t shirts that differ between three dark shades are swapped for a cosy hoodie- something I would love right about now.

As he came back he held up a large black dressing gown and a few towels for me. Placing them down on the counter to his left he offered to help me take my coat off, I gratefully accepted despite the tension and obvious awkwardness between the two of us. We’ve never been this nice to one another, let alone on someone else’s account. His hands gently glided across the tops of my shoulders, gripping onto the fabric as it was a matter of pulling actions to free me from the confinement.

Once freed, I turned back to face him, this version that I wasn’t used to. The silence returns, neither of us wanting to speak first. I make the first move, picking the things up from the side and he acts accordingly. “Erm, bathroom is upstairs, first right.” He spoke with a low tone as the storm only rose outside. Thanking him with the same amount of softness I walked into the bathroom, surprised at the neatness of his belongings.

Picking up his aftershave I sniffed it lightly, goosebumps instantly prickled across my arms and legs, but it might be because I’m cold. No, it is because I’m cold, that’s all. I carefully place it back in the exact same spot where the ring from the base is, not stepping it out of line in the slightest. Moving away I turn the shower on, seeing the steam instantly collide with the air, floating in circles as it swiftly dances towards the window wanting to be at one with the outside world, with the harshness rather than the gently, the delicate protection of the indoors.

Standing under the shower I felt vulnerable, I was in Dan’s home. Someone I barely know, who I hate, who I’ve hated for years, but why? I stand under the shower for longer than need be, the warmth having seeped into my system a few minutes ago I feel like I can contemplate it all in here. Despite the fogged room it feels clearer than anywhere else. Here I can think, I can reflect and see things play out in the steam. Everywhere else there is no filter, it is what it is.

Abruptly I turn the shower off, wanting to rid the steam and the images I see occurring. I see him, I see this version of him and, and I like it. The hesitation as opposed to the usual brashness. Comfort rather than coldness. Inviting, not off putting. What is happening? As I stand in front of the mirror it remains covered in a thick layer of possibilities, lifting my index finger I draw what comes to mind, I swirl my name across and see it drip down, revealing small parts of myself. I see my shoulder, I see the freckles and the spots, I see someone with a fresh face and tinted cheeks. I see someone who is afraid to be honest with herself, I see a new side to me.

The longer I stand here, the more I dry the feeling off, but yet it lingers. I see the steam vanish, taking the images with it into the thunderstorm. How ironic, that every sweet image is being destroyed into a storm, just like every conversation we have ever had.

As I dry off I try to reflect over why we hate each other, if this is what can be labelled as hatred. I remember him coming to the house once when Kyle came home, telling us about this band he was in. Kyle had such high hopes, I could see it and feel it in his hug, the type that was too tight but held so much emotion you couldn’t let go. He walked through the door, seemingly afraid to speak up or make eye contact with any of us. I think I laughed to myself about the height of his hair at the time, now having been tamed more yet I laughed because I had never seen someone so true to themselves. It was unique to him, now he has become more generic, less enticing. Looking back there was no conflict between us, I can’t see a moment for us to have never gotten on.

Shrugging it off I hear him call up, asking if I’m alright. Again, something he has never asked me, ever. Opening the door marginally I shout down to him, “I’ll be down shortly!” Taking the dressing gown I slip it on, the arms immediately being three times too long, but it is at a comfortable length at my ankles. It feels like I’m wearing some poorly designed dress, but a cosy one at that as the fibres warm up against my bare skin and prevent my dripping hair soaking through. Quickly, I towel dry my hair, clear up and walk down the stairs.

As I hover on the bottom step I can hear him singing to himself, no radio, no music, only him. Standing still I take the time to actually hear him, not with the support of anything else, only the kettle boiling. I smile to myself as he hits the higher notes, the passion I can hear being forced into each lyric. “Enjoying the performance?” Snapping out of my daze he leans over the railing with a slight smile whilst the colour rushes to my cheeks, pricking them lightly.

“You aren’t too bad.” I tell him with a smile before following him through to the kitchen where he makes some tea which we take into the living room.

Sitting down with him on his sofa feels weird, yet at the same time normal in these circumstances. Again, neither of us sure what to say first. “Thank you,” I mutter, only wanting to fill the void. “for letting me come in. I know I’m the last person you’d want to see.” The rain lashes down outside, the day closing with no sign of returning as the clouds darken and the thunder continues to rumble.

Dan clears his throat before putting his tea down and faces me, his glasses slightly fogged causing me to chuckle and a smile to appear on him. “It’s no problem. I’m surprised you remembered where I live, I mean it’s been awhile since you last came.” I nod in agreement as I play with the ends of my hair as a distraction.

“About two years, I think? Even then I barely came inside. I remembered the unique doorknob.” Immediately I internally groan, realising how stupid it sounds aloud.

He chuckled, made me feel more at ease. “I know what you mean, something to remember and all.” We resumed our previous actions, sipping at our cups of tea and listening to the intensity of the rain rise like the anxiety in the pit of my stomach. Saying my name lightly I lift my head up to see him wearing a cautious look, “You can stay here tonight, only if you want.” I could feel the pit rising up into my chest, I tried to take a deep breath but the beating of my hard clogged it, preventing it from happening. “Only if you want to.” He placed his hand on top of mine which I simply stared at, wide eyed.

Going between his eyes and his hands both of us were confused, neither of us completely understanding the need for such an action. “Dan,” I ask quietly, not sure how to approach the topic. “why do we hate each other so much?” It wasn’t the sort of question that had an obvious answer, yet slowly he withdrew his hand from on top of mine, taking the warmth with it.

“If I’m honest with you, I don’t know.” He paused, pushing his glasses back up as they slipped down his nose, revealing the brightness in his eyes even in the dark setting. “Part of me assumed you just resented me from day one, and I went with it.”

“But I don’t remember anything happening, besides,” Pausing everything clicks into place, I can see it so clearly as I zone out into the blank wall opposite me and the sound of the rain increases as Dan’s voice is muffled. “Luke.”

Luke, my first ‘love.’ “Luke, I remember him.” The distaste lingered in his voice as if he wasn’t able to get rid of it, that is exactly what Luke was like.

“He told me to stay away from you, as you were deceiving.” I scoff, thinking back to how naive I was, I’d believe anything he’d say as I wanted what we had to be real. I wanted to believe that more than anything, I was young and thought that was love. If only I knew what I knew now. “So I did, I guess even after we broke up it stayed.”

“Wait,” He speaks up, breaking the pause. “you two, you two broke up?” Pure confusion crosses his face again yet I wear the same look for differing reasons.

“You didn’t know? Kyle never told you?” I lift my legs up, covering them with the dressing gown as I sit directly facing him. He puts his tea down and does the same, both of us fully focusing on one another.

He shakes his head, “If I knew I’d of,” I can see him pause, stop for words. “nevermind.” He doesn’t finish, he shrugs it off.

But I can’t. “You’d of? What?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.

Now he can’t look at me, the focus that he held less than a minute ago has become absent. It feels as if we are hovering between hate and like, him now jolting back to old habits, a way we both shut off. “I would’ve said something sooner to you about how I felt, alright?” He speaks too quickly with frustration, barely giving me time to process it.

Sitting still I blink rapidly, my eyes focusing on the mixed emotions written across his face. The pit in my stomach resumes its normal place, never comfortable whilst my heart races, I’m sure he can see it beating through the dressing gown as it pounds through my ears cutting out the storm. “And,” Clearing my throat I try to remain calm, unsure how to at this point as I ponder over his response before I can even ask.

“I like you.” He states, “I’ve liked you for so long. I’ve just never known how to react about it. For months I’ve known, Kyle has known. Hence why I’m around more, not to annoy you, but to try and get you to like me back.” Taking his glasses off he rubs his eyes, clearly irritated by the entire thing. “Never before have I ended up so hung up on someone, or had these kind of mixed feelings, okay?” Putting his glasses back on I can see the combination in his eyes, the care rimmed with fear.

Edging closer towards him I pick up his left hand, placing it in my lap as a distraction for myself more than him. “Luke distorted my outlook on you, and I think I only started seeing you a few months ago.” I knew I had, I just kept up the facade, the feeling of hate towards him when really my heart would flutter. “You kept on hating me, so I kept on hating you.” Laughing to myself I realise how stupid we’ve been all along. “I tried to do so much for Luke, I changed for him. He liked me looking a certain way but I couldn’t do it. It wasn’t me.” Reflecting over the rough time I can feel his hand on my cheek, warmth flowing through it radiating into me.

“I wouldn’t change a thing about you, ever. You, simply being you is enough. You’re the person who goes out of their way for others. The sort of person who can’t admit they need help when they are so desperate.” He knows it all, he knew it all as it happened. “But I didn’t know what to do to help, so I let it happen.” He sighs, shaking his head as regret hangs heavy on his shoulders. “I should’ve helped you, I’m so sorry.”

A small sincere smile forms on my face as I whisper his name, making the large room feel small in the storm. “Neither of us really knew what was happening.” I mutter, knowing it is true. “Maybe we can make this work, whatever this might end up being.” He lifts his head, potential replaces the fear, potential for what this could be.

“I’d like that a lot. I’m tired of having the heaviness of fake hatred on my conscience. For once, I’d like to be selfish and have you in my life.” Uncrossing his legs he makes room on the sofa for me to lie next to him.

Moving I lean against him, wrapped up in his arms at peace in the harsh storm. “Thank you Dan,” Glancing up to him I see the real him, the genuine person wearing glasses and offering a girl a place to stay in the storm. “for all of this and what is to come.”

I lean back, resting against him as the storm only continues to beat against the windows, but for once I feel at peace. I’m safe from the harsh reality outside, as in here, inside and securely comforted in his arms I am living a dream. One I hope I don’t stop having any time soon.

#not sure why but rainy pieces are always my favourites #especially since its raining outside #and its cosy in my room #love it #bastille #bastille imagines #bastille imagine #imagine #imagines #preferences #preference #writing #bastille writing #dan smith #dan smith imagines #dan smith imagine #dan smith fluff #bastille fluff

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